Your Metal Spine
by leave your sanity at the door
Summary: Play with fire and get burned. CCB employee Talar Sampson isn't beautiful or popular, but she is unafraid to step outside her comfort zone. Landing a job on Earth at a remote CCB outpost, she falls foul of a certain South African mercenary. An intense, twisted relationship develops between them, threatening to destroy everything she has ever known. REAL CHAPTER 17 NOW UP!
1. DJ SHADOW – You Can't Go Home Again

**author's note:**

First and foremost, I want to extend the hand of gratitude to anyone and everyone reading this fic. It's such a shame that the Elysium fic-dom is so painfully untapped ('cos I'd tap it, huh), and I hope that my contribution won't disappoint. Although I have numerous issues with the movie, I saw fantastic but unrealized potential in its visuals, themes, and some of its characters. I wanted to at least attempt to do some it justice. I extend the other hand (I'm starting to resemble Moses parting the waves now..well, gesture-wise) of thanks to those whose help has proved invaluable in the writing of this story.

Secondly, expect an abundance of of disclaimers and long author's notes. There are going to be numerous pretty contentious racial, political and ethical elements which I feel it only fair to explain beforehand, so as not to end up offending anyone. I hasten to add that none of said elements represent my own views or opinions, but are merely a reflection of the characters'.

Thirdly, I've had to take a few liberties with the canon, and real life history. When researching for this story I encountered several inconsistencies between the film's merchandise and PR and the film itself, especially in respect of Kruger's rap sheet. For this reason I decided it wouldn't be such a heinous crime to base my story _around_ these things rather than adhere rigidly to them.

And finally, if somehow you missed the synopsis and have come here for something cute, fluffy and affectionate, please know that this story is not a baby teacup pomeranian. In fact, it's about as far from that as things can get, mmmkay?

**I own nothing. Elysium and its characters depicted therein are Copyright of Neill Blomkamp.**

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**CHAPTER 1**

It didn't matter, did it? Whether it was due to bravery, stupidity or lunacy, if you played with fire you got burned, and burning was the most painful way to die. That was what Talar Sampson thought as she seated herself in front of the vast mahogany desk of the Civil Cooperation Bureau's main interview room. Andrew Chisholm, the longest standing CCB employee stationed on Earth, had discovered this literally when an altercation with a group of civilians had gotten out of hand a week ago. What had compelled him first of all to venture into a local town, and then wade in amongst the great unwashed masses and try and break up a fight, had ended up getting him doused with petrol and set alight. He was a good man, tough and dedicated enough to hold the fort down there amongst the Earth-based agents, but damn if he hadn't lost his mind that final night.

She had met him at several functions, his company welcome relief from the trussed-up cesspool of schmoozery and fakery in which the other employees of the CCB so happily frolicked. Having never excelled at the finer arts of social navigation, Talar had witnessed others far below her level of competence advance within the organisation, simply because they could look and act the part. It was a wonder she had managed to land a job there in the first place, let alone keep it. Barely a week in and the façade she had so meticulously constructed – the gregarious, savvy and thick-skinned antithesis of everything she was - fell apart, and it had all gone downhill from there. Six years later, the 28-year-old wondered why she had ever tried at all. Still, she had Yasmin - renegade manager of the Bureau's CCTV control room, and one of the few non whites employed by the organization, whose quirkiness and vivacity never failed to brighten the long, mundane days – and had at least found temporary solace in Andrew Chisholm.

75 years he had worked on Earth, fulfilling a role invented out of sheer bureaucracy and sustained with funds that could eradicate world debt in less than a year. A ludicrous, utterly dispensable job that could easily have been incorporated into existing agents' daily duties on the space station, or at the very least fulfilled by admin droids. Nevertheless, it had earned him a pretty penny, and after a mere 15 years – the blink of an eye in a society in which 200 wasn't uncommon - would have escalated him to top tier status in the organisation had he decided to return home permanently.

"Frankly," he had confided in her, a wry glint in his eyes, "I prefer it down there."

The irony hadn't been lost on her. Renouncing the world of have's to dwell in that of have-not's, after the arduous struggle such have-not's routinely undertook to reach the have's (although the vast majority of them were intercepted en route) was close to heresy.

Yet, ever since meeting him, that had been her dream. If she wasn't going to get ahead the traditional way, the social way, she would damn well wait it out until he resigned and do it the socially-isolated way; prove her mettle by working long and hard in a place most Elysians were loath to even visit.

She had never expected it to occur so soon, though. In the gilded cage that was the interview room, Talar knew the job would be hers, if only for the fact that few others wanted to do it. Less than few; none. Yasmin had told her of the panic behind the scenes the day after Chisholm had been killed. Bureaucracy required a CCB representative on Earth, and if no-one volunteered then someone would have to be elected against their will. The brief flash of relief in the Human Resource Manager's eyes when Talar had turned up for the interview said it all; the election would have been a complete lottery, and it could have been his backside getting hauled down there.

Today's charade, merely for keeping up appearances, was the second round, and it was a full day affair. Talar had no idea what to expect, which in all honesty was just how she liked it. Her half Armenian genes weren't the problem, but at only 5'4/162cm, and a rather 'weighty' 150lbs/68kg, she stuck out a mile from the willowy beauty of most CCB females. Neither did she have their effortless grace or haughty refinement. In the presence of all these sleek thoroughbreds, she felt like a plain, slow draught horse. What she did possess was a love of challenges, a readiness to step outside her comfort zone, and an ability to think on her feet. Working in the lower echelons of admin permitted few opportunities to demonstrate these qualities, but she had made sure to utilise them whenever the situation arose, garnering various accolades – although never promotions – from her superiors. Even Defense Secretary Delacourt – "Ms. D", the "Big D" or the "IceMare", as she was affectionately dubbed by her minions - had praised her, once... in writing, of course; actual tangible paper, handed to her by the organization's chief Mailperson and Dogsbody in General.

She had to admit, though, that one challenge she certainly wouldn't relish would be to work under that ice maiden's scrutiny for an entire day, and it was the only thing that kept a modicum of panic skipping around in her stomach. Yasmin had joked that, because it was a process so infrequently conducted, the interview for Earth Staff Manager could involve literally anything: "Even the IceMare might sit in on it!" she had cracked. Unlikely though it was, the thought had stuck, and Talar was wearing a sanitary towel just in case.

Dieter Lang, Manager of Human Resources, settled into the plush leather chair. He adjusted his glasses – an item Talar presumed he could only wear to affect erudition, as medbays cured all imperfections besides the psychological – before placing a briefcase on the table.

Once more, Talar caught that same flash of relief in the blond man's blue eyes. As long as she did nothing deranged to jeopardize her chances, she had a feeling she was going to ace this. Unless Delacourt showed up, that was.

The look of relief swiftly faded, to be replaced by the ever conventional introductory smile.

"First of all, Ms. Sampson," he said, "we would like to congratulate you on making the second round. We believe you're a strong candidate for the position."

Well trained in the art of bullshittery, Talar thought. Standard at the CCB.

"Today's interview is going to be quite unconventional, so, permit me to cut straight to the chase. We are in no doubt you have the administrative skills and the enthusiasm for the job. Nor do we doubt you have the commitment. Your interpersonal skills are fine-"

_Oh, you should see me at garden parties,_ Talar thought sardonically.

"What we need to ascertain today is how comfortable you'll be working down there effectively alone, and coming into contact with our assets on a daily basis; because as you yourself know, Ms Sampson, we are a vast and broad organization, with agents of all specialities in a variety of fields. All but a select few of these agents have been recruited from Earth, and many of them have, shall we say, less than salubrious pasts. This is of course the price we pay for paradise. Do you follow so far?"

Talar gave a curt nod, replying "Yes Sir." She knew precisely what he meant. It was no secret amongst CCB employees that their organization sourced hardened criminals for guard dog duty, although the identities of these people were off limits to most except the most senior.

"You already know you will be processing and handling these agents' assignments. You know you will meet many of them-"

"They fly in from all over the world," Talar recalled Chisholm remarking. "Aircars, Fulgar shuttles, Ravens, Raptors; averaging transonic speeds. But come on; it's the 22nd Century and we give them one club, just one club, in Nevada? Still, my bank account is hardly complaining!"

"-But what we need to know is if there is any doubt, in your mind, that you will be capable of working with them. We've compiled a dossier, ranking the 100 most active ones – the ones you're most likely to meet - from cleanest, to..." he hesitated, then completed the sentence with an open-palmed explanatory gesture. "Simply go through it today – take as long as you feel you need – and then tell me, in no uncertain terms, what you think. We are not monitoring your heart rate, your temperature, or your stress levels. We won't submit you for a New Polygraph. We want absolute honesty from you: do you think you can work with these people, yes or no. Do you understand?"

Talar nodded again, repeated the compulsory "Yes sir."

"And I'm sure I don't need to remind you that everything you read in here does not go beyond these walls."

It wasn't a question. Talar repeated herself reverently for the third time.

Lang popped open the briefcase and produced a tablet computer, which he switched on, swiped, and handed to Talar.

"I'm leaving this with you in here," he continued. "Again, take as long as you feel you need. The only requirement is that you finish before the end of the working day. When you _do_ finish, please buzz me; likewise if you would like a break. There are pens and paper in the desk drawer if you wish to make notes, or if you'd prefer to make them electronically you may open a new document in the tablet. If you want anything to drink or eat, simply buzz the canteen. And you know where the toilets are. Is that OK?"

"That's fine thank you Sir."

"Good. I'll see you later then."

With that, Lang promptly stood up and vacated the room, the electronic door opening and closing with a pleasing 'swoosh'.

_That's it?!_ Talar thought incredulously, looking at the yellow dossier icon that read: "Area 20. Contents: 100 files". She could get through that in 3 hours. Could there be a catch? There had to be. Unless the contents of the dossier were utterly horrifying, there was no way she would say no.

But that was precisely it: they were so desperate to fill the position, perhaps they didn't want her to say no, or couldn't even afford for her to say no? Conversely, what if the contents truly were so horrifying, so nerve-shreddingly awful that she would have to spend the rest of the working day evaluating her decision? Then again, could it be any worse than what she already knew? What was more, as these agents' superior, even the worst of them would pose no threat to her lest they be immediately discharged. The job entailed working in the office of a subterranean venue in the middle of a faux industrial complex out in the Nevada desert, as the CCB's Earth-based staff manager, with only droids for company. The venue doubled as a bar staffed by droids for the agents, with whom the staff manager was, technically, at liberty to fraternize during their breaks... although such a thing was implicitly frowned upon. Most of these people were, after all, from Earth. But as insalubrious as they were, none had ever dared cause trouble for their seniors. Chisholm had never encountered a problem, so he had said, and neither had the three employees before him, all of whom had left due to boredom as opposed to stress or anxiety.

So, realistically, there was nothing to worry about, right?

_Well, I'll soon find out!_

The summary bar at the bottom of the dossier read: 100 agents. 97 Earth born. 81 male. 19 female. Talar toyed with the idea of jumping straight to the end to see who the worst was, but restrained herself and began at the beginning. The first thirty, to which the three Elysian-born agents belonged, were ludicrously easy; no criminal records or black marks against their names. The next sixteen were also no problem, with only the occasional minor infraction such as arriving late for a scheduled operation, or getting into a minor fracas with civs or each other. From 47, things started getting heavier - petty criminals, fraudsters, ex gang members, minor hackers – but whose records were otherwise clean since their recruitment into the Bureau.

It was at 71 when the real bad guys – and two bad girls - began to emerge. Career criminals, gang leaders, pimps, human traffickers, militia men, religious extremists, extortionists, murderers; although still, mainly clean records since conscription, save for the odd GBH against civs. At 79 there was a Russian empress of a narcotics empire who it was alleged was behind the murders of half the country's journalists and spies. At 82, a female Yakuza boss with an Olypmic-sized pool of blood on her hands. At 83 was a white, ex South African Air Force fighter pilot by the name of C. T. Crowe (no first or middle names were given in any agent's files) who had spent 10 years incarcerated for his part in a plot to murder a prominent South African politician. Clean since conscription, though. Number 85 was also a white South African – an ex SANDF (South African National Defense Force) sniper named R. B. Drake – convicted as part of an arms trafficking ring that supplied weapons in conflicts against Russia. Also clean since conscription, save three episodes of grievous bodily harm against civilians.

Talar read on, her eyes widening a few times as she contemplated just how scandalous it was for people such as these to be on a 'respected' institution's payroll. Welcome to the Big Bad World, little girl. Welcome to Earth: the place that keeps Elysium spic and span.

They widened further when she came across two Italian serial rapists and ex drug barons at 88 and 89, identical twin brothers who, after having extensive plastic surgery, were now employed as gang infiltrators in New York and New Jersey. At 90 there was a serial paedophile from Venezuela, whose notes described him as "claiming to be a decent person, but with one problem", who lead a team monitoring the rampant drug cartel business in Mexico.

91 through 95 were black South Africans from the Numbers gang – a South Africa-wide prison gang even Talar had heard of, having learned about them in her school Anti-Social Studies class - who were said to be one of the most feared in the world. All in for brutal murder and offences against the fairer sex, and kept in for murder, rape and torture within the prisons. Each had rung up several repeat offences, including rape of minors, since recruitment. Charming. 96 through 98: more white South Africans, ex military, also involved in assassination plots, drug smuggling and arms trafficking.

Talar shook her head in dismay. She had known some the CCB's assets were bad, but some of these guys seemed like downright liabilities. She dreaded to think what the final two's rap sheets would look like.

99 was a baby-faced young man, seemingly no older than his late teens, from Lithuania, whose elite hacking skills had brought down the New World Government's entire security system, and released hundreds of thousands of confidential documents onto the internet. Not even one infraction since, though; a crime like that was enough to last a lifetime. In the eyes of authorities, all the murders and rapes and traffickings in the whole world couldn't amount to the sheer chaos brought about by humiliating a government. Needless to say, he was now working in intelligence. Talar was surprised he was even still alive.

She paused, taking a deep breath as her finger scrolled to the final file. Something shot through her – a heady mix of anticipation, excitement, and what she was loathe to admit was actual trepidation.

_OK you_, she said to herself, _Mama's gon' get-chuu_. It was what Yasmin would say to her, before picking up a spider that Talar had begged her to come round and remove. Talar wasn't genuinely frightened by many things, but spiders were her nemesis. Whoever's idea it was to let those creatures onto the Elysium-bound Arc should have been shot.

And then she realised, with sickening certainty, that she had been trembling. It was the thought of spiders, yeah. Just the spiders. Or perhaps it was the prospect of being so shocked by what she would find, that she wouldn't be able to accept the job.

No. No-one had ever bothered her would-be predecessors, and they would have no reason to bother her... other than the fact that she was female. She would hedge a sizeable bet on most of the worst guys being misogynists. Misogyny notwithstanding, another thing she would hedge was that they valued their jobs. So, _logically_, there was no reason to worry.

One more deep breath, just for good luck.

The first thing Talar noticed about the bearded, hawkish-featured Mr. C. M. Kruger – aka Agent 32 Alpha 21b – was that, where the rap sheets of even the worst of his contemporaries had at best two pages, he had three. Three; one of which looked to be an in-depth report. Oh dear. For a man of this calibre to continue working for the Bureau, he had to be extremely valuable. His location was listed as 'worldwide', and his section 'immigration' after which there was an asterisk. Running a scan for said asterisk revealed it in the microscopic print at the bottom of the first page, where it simply said "refer to File 92z: subsection 41". Typical; if there was even the slightest excuse to work more bureaucracy into the equation, the hotshots at the CCB would find it. It was part of the organization's lifeblood, and they were like sharks who could smell but a mere drop of it in the water a mile away.

D.O.B: 9/19/1970. Height: 182cm/5'11. Weight: 77kg/170lb. Hair: brown. Eyes: blue. Distinguishing marks/scars/tattoos/piercings: none. Nationality: South African. Ethnicity: mixed (Caucasian and Germanic) . Religion: atheist. Active since: 2007.

Anthropological-Ethnic Studies had taught Talar that authorities used to refer to vast swathes of peoples as 'Caucasian', using the term interchangeably with 'white', but had dispensed with such a custom long before she was born. 'Caucasian' used to be such a misleading word, and they had been right to dispense with its former usage, as it could not in her opinion be used interchangeably with 'white'. Her mother was of Armenian ethnicity, and dark complexioned, with jet black hair, deep brown eyes, and tan olive skin; ethnically Indo-European (which used to fall under 'Caucasian') and from the Caucasus, but certainly not 'white'. It seemed grossly inaccurate to put a platinum-haired, blue-eyed and cream-skinned Northern European in the same category. Equally inaccurate to think that Armenians and the mostly dark-complexioned groups from the Caucasus used to deem themselves the 'true' whites; and that the term 'Aryan', which also denoted people from the Caucasus region, was misappropriated by the Nazis to denote that specific Nordic look.

Nowadays, classification was more specific. The term 'white' – although never used in official documentation - referred to those such Northern European types, and anyone with a similarly pale, peach or pink-hued skin tone, irrespective of eye color. 'Caucasian' meant literally from the Caucasus: Abkhaz; Circasian; Georgian; Dagestani; Veinakh. And 'Germanic', which used to refer more to languages than ethnicities, now generally meant 'white' from Afrikaner/ Austrian/ Danish/ Dutch/ English/ Icelandic/ German/ Norwegian/ Swedish extraction.

She smiled wistfully, remembering how her teachers in Anthropological-Ethnic Studies had hammered such distinctions into their students with an almost militant forcefulness, which had come to earn those teachers the nickname "drill sergeants", like the type represented in Military Studies. It was Elysium's way of honoring its Old Society origins. The fact that the majority of Elysians were indeed 'white' and originally of Western or Northern European extraction, did not excuse forgetting the world it had left behind, the drill sergeants had said.

Judging by his surname, she presumed the Caucasian was on his mother's side; although stranger things had been known to happen, she was sure. He could equally have been raised by his mother and never known his father. He could have been adopted. She studied the man's photo, wondering precisely where his mother had originated from. The precise distinctions between the groups evaded her, but she remembered enough to know that the particular looks could often overlap. Plus, being mixed obviously made such identification more difficult. Never mind. Going on what she remembered about South African history – which, truthfully, wasn't much - the Germanic must have been from Germany or Holland originally; although, as her 1st generation Elysian, Anglophone South African school friend Michelle Geldenhuys could attest to, his surname didn't necessarily mean he was an Afrikaner. Many white 'English' South Africans originated from Afrikaner stock, she had said, but renounced their language and culture in order to appear more culturally progressive, and retained their family name as a badge of honor to show how far they had come.

She read on.

Ex SANDF Sergeant Major of the South African Army aka Senior Chief Warrant Officer (SWCO). Talar had no clue what that was, or why the terms were synonymous; only that it was obviously a high enough rank.

His pre-CCB crimes, which were committed during his service in the military, were listed as operating a weapons trafficking business integral to the funding and support of crimes against Russia; murder of two high ranking SANDF officers and the attempted murder of another; assassination of two South African politicians; assassination of a controversial South African journalist; assassination of two leading Russian journalists; and plots to assassinate several more notorious figures, two of them Russian. Damn, this guy _really_ didn't like the Russians. Then again, outside of Russia, many people didn't. It, like the USA, was one of those highly divisive countries that it wasn't unusual to either love or hate. Even today, they were still the biggest powers in the world, both seemingly considering themselves the center of it if the media were to be believed. Suffice it to say, a decent number of Elysians were from those countries, Talar's own parents being American born. Yet, despite the detractors – of which there were many - she couldn't bring herself to entirely despise the country that had granted them the opportunity to earn a one way ticket to the most exclusive habitat in the universe. She was proud of her origins, if only for that reason.

2/17/06: sentenced to life imprisonment without parole, in C-Max Penitentiary, Pretoria.

5/25/06: Escaped by coating self with petroleum jelly and sliding through cell bars. 3 wardens and 2 guards linked to the escape later dismissed.

6/10/06: Caught and arrested at Port Elizabeth Airport following nationwide search. Immediate transferral to Kokstad Super Maximum Security prison, KwaZulu-Natal.

Talar snorted back a laugh. This was crazy. Utterly crazy. Almost too absurd to be believed...

...which was evidently why the CCB had snapped him up.

Since recruitment in 2007, his crimes turned even nastier. Two occasions of kidnapping targets, one of which culminated in the target's rape, torture and murder; three other counts of raping targets, two of which involved torture; three counts, all of unnecessary force and gratuitous pyromania against targets; grievous bodily harm against a fellow male agent; assault and battery of another fellow male agent, with subsequent misappropriation of said agent's resources; and finally, two counts of misappropriation of military resources. A whopping twenty one offences in total. Talar wondered if any of them had been against Russians.

But Jesus Tap-dancing Mohawk-Haired Christ on Mount Ararat...

To his dubious credit, though, none of his CCB era crimes were against 'innocent' civilians or his superiors; so were she ever to meet this man in person, misogynist or not (although it was now all but confirmed that he was...assuming the raped targets were female), he most probably wouldn't dare lay a finger on her. No, make that 'definitely wouldn't' - she couldn't let herself believe otherwise. Furthermore, his last offence – misappropriation of military resources – was committed 40 years ago, and the last incidence of rape in 2092. Since 2104, his record was spotless – his longest dry spell yet – so whatever was being done to rein in his ultra criminal tendencies, it was obviously proving effective. That, or he had found better people to cover his tracks. Truth be told, the latter wouldn't have surprised her – if a maximum amount of offences were permitted, yet his services were vital enough for Delacourt to want to keep him, the French Canadian alpha she-wolf would do everything in her power to make that possible. And power she had. An abundance of it.

Time to move onto the report.


	2. DYNATRON – Propulsion Overdrive

**AN**

As mentioned in chapter 1, for the sake of this story working I've had to play around with parts of the canon. So be aware, change is 'a comin, folks! Please refer to the AN at the end of this chapter for further explanation.

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**CHAPTER 2**

Yasmin Harandi screamed, launching herself at her younger friend. She threw her arms around the poor girl, squeezing her tight.

"Oh my lil' bubba!" she cried elatedly in her Southern drawl, despite Talar being only 2 years younger; in name, at least. Yasmin had been 30 for a good two decades. "My lil bubba's going to Earth! You have no idea how proud I am of you! Aarrrgggh, come and sit down and tell me aaaalllllll about it!"

She relinquished her strangle-hold hug. Excitedly grabbing her friend by the hand, she literally dragged her, like an impatient child with their parent, through the palatial mansion and out onto the immaculate patio. Their shoes click-clacked on the Jerusalem limestone floors as they went. Yasmin was the kind of person many could only tolerate in short bursts; despite holding down a respectable job as head of the Bureau's CCTV control room, outside of work the stunning Iranian-American had a tendency for exaggerated behavior. Such eccentric, over-ebullient antics were her de facto reaction to many positive things. Fortunately, Talar was the kind of person who found her rejuvenating rather than tiring. Yasmin was like a shot of triple-strength espresso that perked her up and kept her alert.

Talar seated herself in one of the white, dainty looking wrought-iron chairs, surveying the immaculate scene before her, as her friend scooted off to fetch some liquid refreshment. Imported from Italy, these chairs. Original 1940s Salterini. Like Talar, Yasmin was a 1st-gerenation Elysian, and one who had chosen a very different route in life than her parents. The Harandis were an oil dynasty based in Texas, and the Sampsons California real estate tycoons since the 1990's, both having relocated to the New World when their respective businesses had dried up. Whilst Earth's fossil fuels were all but exhausted, however, the housing market had since picked up again, with an ever-increasing need for heavily guarded gated communities; enclaves of extreme wealth that couldn't quite make it to Elysium, but wanted to keep the poor and disenfranchised out nonetheless. Whilst poverty and crime were rife, Earth wasn't the utterly destitute hell hole that some Elysians would have their children believe. Talar knew this because her father was back in the real estate game, her two elder brothers now having joined him, and continuing to make a fortune.

Ever unconventional, Yasmin returned with two champagne flutes and two cans of Scrumpy Jack cider. She had never understood the fuss about champagne, she had said, preferring gut-rot cheap beverages more appropriate for the poorer inhabitants of Earth than a Persian princess. She placed the items on the glass-topped, wrought-iron table, and sat down.

"They wouldn't let us monitor the interview room," she explained incredulously. "Can you believe that? You could have killed poor old Dieter, or at least made away with some of his prize pens."

"And you just know when they caught me they wouldn't have arrested me for murder or theft," Talar said with a chuckle.

"Right. They'd do it for you not filling out the correct forms beforehand."

The two shared a laugh. Yasmin picked up her can of cider, opened it and took a large swig, before pouring more of the contents into the champagne flute. Talar went for the flute first.

Despite Lang's stipulation that the interview's contents remain strictly confidential, Talar knew that she could trust Yasmin, and it would have been a violation of human rights for the Elysium authorities to spy on their citizens; thus, it was safe to talk. Talar sipped her cider.

"First of all," Yasmin said, "tell me what actually happened."

"Well, they said it was going to be unconventional... and it certainly was."

She went on to explain the files, up to the point of reaching Agent Kruger's review.

"My God," Yasmin remarked, "I can only imagine what that damn thing said!"

Being the first party responsible for the headquarters' security, the CCTV operators were one of the few privy to all agents' basic files. But not, as conditions would have it, their actual rap sheets or reports. Everything they and their fellow employees learned about the Bureau's assets were through clandestine whisperings outside all but one of the top tier's purview. That one was Heidi Bryant, 33-year-old auburn-haired supermodel and third in line to Delacourt's throne, whose penchant for gossip with her immediate inferiors would have gotten her hung drawn and quartered by now had those inferiors been equally as careless...and not terrified of her. Bryant was the kind of person who believed she could act with impunity, and have everyone else clear up her mess, no matter how monumental. She also happened to be Delacourt's second cousin. Nevertheless, not all of the gossip filtered down to the lowest ranks of the organization.

"Oh, it's juicy all right," said Talar, with a wicked grin.

"With Kruger I'd expect no less. That guy's a fucking menace and then some – he's got a list of crimes as long as your arm, but he gets away with it because he's a Gen 1-" Gen 1s, as they were called, were the first generation of agents recruited by the bureau; the ones to have acquired legendary status and even sometimes reverence, "-and the IceMare's top pet. Whenever she wants someone to do the real dirty work – which is apparently quite often – she activates that guy. From what I've read and heard about him, he absolutely relishes it."

Talar nodded. "He's been playing ball for the last 40 years, in so far as extra curricular crimes go."

"Oh has he, now? Maybe he's getting soft in his old age?"

"Or maybe they're medicating him?"

"That's more likely."

"But before that...yeah. Very naughty boy. Every bit the menace you describe him as."

"Is it true he's a rapist?"

"Rapist, murderer, assassin, torturer, kidnapper, thief, weapons trafficker...err...and he hates Russians. At least he's not a paedophile, though."

"Be grateful for small mercies," Yasmin said, snorting sarcastically.

"The report didn't go into his life," Talar continued, "but focused on his psychological make-up; and let me tell you, that's some messed up shit if ever I saw it. He was originally diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder and anti-social behaviour disorder, back in 2006 when he was recruited... which is bad enough, but those diagnoses were overturned in 2038 in favor of something called 'annihilistic personality disorder', which is in the same category as the others but much worse, and much rarer. From what I understand, narcissistic personality disorder and anti-social personality disorder are characterized by a lack of conscience and empathy; highly manipulative people with huge egos, who are completely self serving. But people with this annihilstic personality disorder thing, unlike the others in the category, do have a conscience, they do have empathy; it's just that they can consciously switch them off...which in effect makes them far worse, because they actively choose to annihilate others, to annihilate their own humanity, as it were."

Yasmin shook her head, gave a small tut.

"The narcisstics, the anti-social PDs, sure they're awful, but that's not their fault. They're just wired that way. The annihilists are in a position to choose the yellow brick road or the devil's highway, and they choose the devil's highway. Why, I don't know, but it's that active shunning of their humanity what makes them the most ruthless, evil people imaginable."

"And you're gonna be meeting this guy, in the flesh? I used to think you were brave, Tal. Now I just think you're damn crazy! But even though you're my bubba you're a grown woman and I can't tell you what to do. Unfortunately. I can, however, emotionally blackmail you with the threat of crying myself to sleep every night, distraught with worry."

Talar cracked a smile. "Apparently he barely visits the place. Once every couple months, if that."

"Yeah, but you can be damn sure that'll change when he hears a woman is his superior. He only tolerates the IceMare 'cos she pays him a mint."

"How do you know she pays him a mint?"

"He's got a house here."

"What?! How do you know that?"

"Heidi Bryant used to date the guy who handled his mortgage here."

"Wow."

"Yeah. Kruger's house is the one by Lake Noah. The one joined by a bridge to that giant cube oddity."

Talar knew precisely the one her friend meant; a slick, sparkling white, two storey flat-roofed creation, all clean lines and minimalist aesthetic, with a suspended catwalk that lead to a crystalline cube pavilion sometimes lit up at night like a giant sugar lump. She and Yasmin had flown over it in Yasmin's Lamborghini aircar innumerable times on their way to the restaurant district. Several times a year there would be glowing installations in the tiered garden, strip lighting surrounding the generous infinity pool, and people could be seen milling about.

"That one? The guy must be rolling in it."

"I know. It's obscene. What's even more obscene is that he bought that place the moment Elysium was up and running. He already had enough to take out a mortgage here _then_."

"That's just...more shades of wrong than I can count right now." She paused, struck again by a thought that had often preoccupied her since Corporate Studies class, then continued, "Then again...when you think about it, is it any worse than Delacourt or Carlyle owning properties here? Are they any more entitled to it because they're from old money and went through Ivy League education?"

"True, true," her raven-haired friend said, nodding.

As Dieter Lang had so aptly put it, Kruger and his ilk were the price Elysians paid for paradise. Elyisum was the omelette made from a trillion broken eggs - an idyll mostly taken for granted by its subsequent generations, that depended on the profits of exploited labor, and the copious shedding of blood, to survive. Unsavory as they were, the real villains weren't the ones who served – be they the hood rats employed in Armadyne factories, or the top-ranking mercenaries - but those who gave the orders. It was a brutal truth that the authorities went out of their way to conceal, and that even the savvier inhabitants chose to ignore or never speak of.

It was only Talar's unusual preoccupation with questioning everything – a facet shared by Yasmin – that had lead her to learn, and care, about such matters. Grateful though the pair were for their good fortunes, it never sat completely easily with them that their very bedrock had been constructed in a factory where workers functioned as mere cogs, dispensable and easily replaceable, subject to hazardous working conditions and paid a pittance for their toil. Neither did the fact that their medbays had, and continued to be, manufactured by a division of ArmaCeuticals - a pharmaceutical company owned by Armadyne, whose medications for the masses were produced with such poor quality materials that some even required a government health warning. Having procured a packet of over-the-counter painkillers via an Earth-based ex-employee of her father's, Yasmin had joked that this was perhaps an attempted measure of population control. "Side effects may include," she had read, "vomiting, diarrhea, nausea, dizziness, constipation, blurry vision, dry mouth, rash, increased heart palpitations, high blood pressure, violent seizures, and sudden death".

In short, Kruger was the symptom, not the cause, and a lofty social standing didn't mean any less blood on your hands or any more entitlement to Elysian citizenship. Money was the only prerequisite.

"Anyway, Yas, as my subordinate he knows he can't touch me."

"Can't touch this!" Yasmin quipped, snapping her fingers animatedly. "Duu do do do, do do, do do, can't touch this! Duu do do do, do do, do do! That's how we livin' on Elysium and you know!"

"-Stop! It's Hammer time!"

"-Stop! It's Hammer time!"

The two broke into hysterics. At over 150 years old, MC Hammer's 'U Can't Touch This' remained to be a timeless classic, having been a staple of Music History class since Elysium's first school opened. Yasmin called it her "bust a funky quote" song, whose lyrics she would often manage to work into informal conversations.

"But," the older woman continued, "what about the Spider Situation? You know they've got massive bastards out there, venom and all."

"I get four house droids."

"Equipped with a sense of humor, though?"

"Sadly not."

In Elysium, there was no limit to the amount of robotic staff a household could employ. Living in an annex to her parents' mansion, Talar, however, had insisted on never needing them. Starkly incongruous with the rest of the space station's inhabitants, she didn't see the need for vast ostentation which served no practical purpose. Not that she was morally against it; rather, it just seemed like a whole lot of pointless to her, money that could be better reinvested in the habitat's social infrastructure. Elyisum was, for the most part, it's own perfect microcosm, with every amenity one could ever want. Inhabited by a mere 2 million people, and at 100 miles / 160 kilometers in diameter, it was spacious enough to boast its own extensive corporate business district, in addition to equally comprehensive educational, science, research, architectural, commercial and leisure districts; one of which housed a vast, artificial Maldives-style indoor resort, with crystalline white sandy beaches, turquoise salt sea and simulated azure sky. It also had a ski resort, a hiking resort, 3 multi-storey interactive cinemas, and so much more.

What it lacked, however, was a museum, a public library, a community center, and various other 'Old World' staples. She reasoned that technological advances had rendered them all but redundant, and that, ironically for a population of merely 2 million, the idea of 'community' had become obsolete. Yet, in the digital and holographic age, there was something charming in the nostalgic quality of actual, tangible artifacts; and in a beautiful world of beautiful strangers, also something comforting in the idea of being on friendly terms with your neighbors.

Perhaps that was one of the reasons Earth appealed to her; or at least, the idea of Earth. Sparse as those places were, they still existed there, although whether they would be anything like she hoped was anyone's guess.

Or perhaps she simply didn't fit in here. Even less so than her bonkers best friend.

"Too bad. Maybe find a wig matching my hairstyle and stick it on one of them, call it Yasmin, and you'll be halfway there."

"Noted!"

"So anyway, what happened after you told Lang you'd accept? Did the IceMare come in? Did your sanitary towel overflow?"

"Oh, if only you knew how close that came to actually happening."

"So she did come in?!"

"She did."

"Holy mother of... No, I'm not even going to complete that sentence. I can't think of any word that would do justice to what I'm feeling right now."

"And do you know why she came in?"

"Why?"

"To congratulate me personally on being the first woman in the job."

"Really? That's...odd."

"It is. And before she left, she said really calmly, "best of luck, especially with our less _amenable_ assets" and gave me this sort of... sly look. I'm not even sure what she meant by it, but it was almost like she took some kind of macabre glee out of knowing I'm going to be down there, coming into contact with-"

"Mr. Annihilistic Personality Disorder and his prison gang buddies."

"Exactly. But then-"

"What? There's more? Don't me tell she cartwheeled out of there? Rumor has it she used to be a gymnast, you know. Take a look at those calves!"

"I've never cared to look at her calves, Yas. I try not to look at her at all, if I can help it. But I'll take your word for it."

"Bitch has astounding calves. I'll give her that. And a great derrier."

"Wait; is there something you're not telling me, by any chance?"

Yasmin cracked a wholly unladylike laugh. "In your fucking dreams, Tal."

Talar chuckled, slapping her friend jovially on the upper arm.

"As I was saying, Yas, after she said that odd line and gave me that weird, kinda sly look, she winked at me."

Yasmin straight spat out her mouthful of cider.

"I am not joking, Yas. She _winked_ at me."

Yasmin lay face down on the glass-topped table, laughing like a crazy woman and slapping her palm against the surface. Talar stopped talking, waiting for the poor woman to recover. When she did, Talar continued, "My thoughts exactly. Except with the freak-out factor."

"Oh, I'm freaked out all right. I'm not capable of expressing just how freaked out I actually am, Tal. Why the fuck would she wink at you?"

"Beats me. Maybe it was an in-joke between her and Lang."

"Or maybe she fancies you."

"Fuck off."

"There is that rumor too... those Quebecois are renowned for being quite fruity."

"Spare me, thanks."

"Hah, fair enough. But I doubt she and Lang have any in-jokes. If the IceMare has any sense of humor it's a) a sick and twisted one, and b) one she wouldn't share with a rank and file like old Dieter. I think the wink was ironic - as in, she's elated at what a _joyous_ time you'll be having down there with those _charming_ specimens. Fucked up, though. I knew she was a bitch, but I wouldn't expect her to goad you like that."

"Me neither."

"Anyway..."

"Yeah..."

"Onto brighter things!" Yasmin slapped her knees resolutely. "What's gonna be happening with the housing situation?"

"Lang sent me away with an intranet code to browse the Bureau's properties in and around that area. Apparently they've got about 20, all fully furnished, although I'm allowed to change the décor if I pay for it myself. I get a standard company aircar; medbay; obviously the droids... I have to pay the rent and rates for the house, though, but that's fair."

"Sounds good! When do you start?"

"That's the thing... They've got the admin droids working there right now, but they want a human as soon as possible. If I said I could go tomorrow, they'd agree. But I've got up to a week from now."

"Only up to a week? Fuck... Right, better get my culo in gear then!"

"What for?"

"Bubba, I'm not letting you go without a proper send off!"

* * *

**AN 2**

Changes made to the canon:

_1\. Elysium's distance from Earth_

I've read numerous conflicting estimates of this. The first, from the movie, quotes the illegal shuttles as being 15,000km (9320m) at halfway toward Elysium. I thought that seemed way off, as the view from Elysium to Earth looks much closer. Research only confused me further; from estimates quoting 75m/120km away, to others stating to be in the same orbit as the International Space Station (220m/354km) from Earth), and still others that say it's at point L5 (which, between 221,000-252,000m/355,655-405,554km, is equidistant between Earth and the Moon, and is in the Moon's orbit) as this was the proposed location for the original Stanford torus. I'm going for it being around 621m/1000km away, which is hopefully not close enough to influence tides, weather and other ecological forces (but you're all welcome to offer any corrections).

_2\. The speed of interstellar crafts_

According to official literature, these differ depending on the craft. Applied to my estimate, the Raven, whose transit time between Earth and the torus is 20 minutes, would have to be travelling at 31m/50km per minute, or 1860mph/3000kph, at its fastest cruising speed (its escape velocity and re-entry speeds, however, would have to be exponentially higher). This equates to hypersonic speed, and Mach 6.67. Carlyle's Fulgar Shuttle, whose transit time is an hour, would therefore be 621mph/1000kph; transonic speed, and approximately Mach 0.85, at its fastest cruising speed. Like any interstellar craft, its escape velocity and re-entry speeds would also have to increase exponentially; and for the sake of plot we're going to have to assume this is workable. Anyway, the Fulgar shuttle is the model that will double as a general purpose aircar for Talar. Those of you learned in Mach will, however, be able to identify the errors between the given crafts and their high speed capabilities; there are a myriad of aerodynamic rules to conform to, and unfortunately, save redesigning entirely new VTOL and astronautical forms of transport, I'm going to have to wing this from the 'future tech' angle. Besides, I frickin love the Raven and Carlyle's Bugatti Veyron shuttle, and any Elysium fic wouldn't be an Elysium fic without them; so, please suspend a healthy amount of disbelief for this one.

_3\. Elysium's size and population_

I've read similarly conflicting estimates as to its size, and population. Some say 29m/40km in diameter, others (including production notes, according to some) say 37m/60km; some say 8k people, others say 10k, whilst others say 100k, 250k and 500k. But, assuming the torus to be roughly 100m/160km away in the canon, at either of those estimates it would look much smaller from Earth. Thus I've gone with what is rumored to be Blomkamp's original idea of the torus being about 100m/160km in diameter, and inhabited by a population larger than the mere 500,000; Blomkamp's original number was 10 million, but I'm going for 2 million.

Having a larger torus also goes some way to solving the scientific fallacy of how a roofless space station can maintain its gravity, and also keep itself protected from radiation and space debris. I'm no phsyics or space science wizz, but from what I understand, centripetal force (or is it centrifugal? Told you I'm no science wizz. At the risk of sounding like an idiot, I'm going to stick with centripetal unless someone corrects me) and super high walls are simply not enough to maintain the status quo on a structure as small as the canonical torus; and there is no mention of it utilizing a force field, similar to the shield that Kruger uses, either. The bigger the object, the stronger centripetal force applies. So, by this merit, a torus 100m / 160 km in diameter might just be enough to crack this particular problem, and negating the need for writing in a force field.

Hey, what is fanfiction for if not subverting canons? ;)

I've had to wing it alongside Blomkamp &amp; co. with the "people residing for more than six months in space and remaining perfectly healthy" premise, though. I'm guessing that's part of the medbay's functions. There is also an issue known as Coriolis Effect, which further complicates matters, but the particularities of it are beyond the scope of my understanding, therefore it will have to be one of the areas which requires a certain amount of poetic license.


	3. YOKO KANNO – We're The Great

**AN 1 **

**1.** So how are you feeling Delacourt with a different hairdo? Well, she's got one, so nyeerrr.

**2.** For the sake of brevity, from here on in I'm going to switch to using imperial measurements in prose; however, in dialogue, as it seems Elysium uses the metric system, I will use this and give the corresponding imperial measurement in parenthesis. I wrote this entire chapter using both and it just looked messy, so I had to pick one and mostly use that. (It's weird being a displaced North American, because I'm used to both measurements and never quite sure which one to use anyway).

**3\. **I was intending to cover this later, but changed my mind because it was bugging me. One of my gripes with the movie was the lack of defenses outside the space station; and by defenses I really mean immigration control, because they may indeed have robust defenses against actual attackers but be completely unauthorized to use them against anything less than an overt attack. Not entirely plausible, but not entirely impossible either. Perhaps they simply don't expect to come under attack and have grown complacent? Judging from what the CCB aide says about them no longer being authorized to use their Earth-bound assets, however, I would expect illegal entry is a prominent concern. If so, is Kruger really their only so-called immigration officer? If not for him, why would they wait until the illegal shuttles land before taking action? After mulling over it a while, my headcannon concluded that Elyisum's defenses against illegal entry were primarily 'civil' (i.e., non lethal) ones, such as interception vessels hovering around the edge of Elysium's airspace... but that these weren't allowed to use lethal force, thereby necessitating the use of less than humanitarian tactics aka "blow the poor buggers to smithereens" if the border hoppers refused to turn back.

**4.** "They're gonna eat me alive if I stumble". From _Help I'm Alive_, by Metric.

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

It had been a close shave, she thought, gazing up at the off-white ceiling of her new bedroom. A _very_ close shave. But she had made it.

Having missed her alarm for 0630, Talar had awoken at 0730 with barely half an hour to complete her entire morning routine; a task which normally took a good 75 minutes at least. Not that she was vain, or simply overly fond of the heavily made-up look; the CCB dress code required even its most mundane employees to promote a certain standard of personal grooming... which was, essentially, to be the businessperson equivalent of trussed up A-List celebrity at an awards gala. It was one of the few times Talar wished she were a man.

Hair the color of dark chocolate, which was normally woven into an elaborate up-do, now hung in a simple side plait down to her collarbone, exposing a heart-shaped face that still carried enough natural fat to give off a youthful air. Deep brown eyes, usually accentuated with kohl, smokey dark shades, and voluminizing and lengthening mascara on both the upper and lower lashes, were now framed only by a simple kohl line and a one-time application of mascara on the upper lashes. Forget contouring – it wasn't the be all and end all. She had managed to save enough time by applying the barest of foundation, concealer and compact, and coloring in her eyebrows quickly, to allow for making the best of her modest but cherubic lips. Forget blush – that would have to be done en route. Forget jumping in the medbay for a personalized emboss on her neck, temple or forehead.

She had squeezed into the charcoal-grey Armani empire dress and anthracite Louboutin stilettos, sparing the briefest of moments to take stock of how the combination managed to flatter even her disproportionate figure. She had always been on the more 'padded out' side, as even her own mother liked to put it, yet her A-cup breasts had refused to conform; and although sorely temped, she had held back on having them surgically enhanced. Besides, none of the whopping four – _four, _hah_ -_ men she had dated had ever complained.

By 0800 she was bidding her family and friends a goodbye that could barely afford sentiment – the tears and hugs had been thoroughly wrung out last night – grabbing the last suitcase, and jumping in her Prius aircar, pre-programmed with her workplace's co-ordinates.

Half an hour. She deserved an Olympic medal.

She had completed the rest of her routine – perfume, stockings, unassuming jewelry, and minimal blush – during the 15 minute journey to the CCB headquarters, where she had been met by Dieter Lang, the infamous Heidi Bryant, and Defense Secretary Delacourt. It was only then that she remembered the one thing Yasmin had drilled into her not to forget, under any circumstances – the ever-trusty sanitary towel - was missing. She had left it on the bathroom counter, still unopened. Stupid fucking grey-matter- destroying alcohol, and rolling into bed at 2am. One of the few times she actually enjoyed a social gathering, and it ended up knocking out her braincells.

Forget the medal, then.

There they had been, awaiting her in the plush lobby, espressos in hand, looking bizarrely informal in comparison to their usual get-up. Talar would have wondered if the famous Earth custom of casual Fridays had suddenly been adopted at the Bureau, had it not been Tuesday. Dieter was wearing jeans – jeans! - and a casual shirt and tie; Heidi's waist-length auburn tresses were scraped back into a simple ponytail rather than a work of art, and was dressed in a simple blush tunic dress and matching pumps; and for the first time ever, Delacourt wasn't kitted out in a hard-line power suit, but something more befitting of a garden party number. Talar had felt a creeping suspicion that she was going to become the victim of a prank.

_She's just going to see me off, right?_ Talar had pleaded with whichever mind-reading deity happened to be peaking in on her thoughts.

"If she shows up and tries to pinch your ass," Yasmin had advised her last night, through drunken slurs, "you take it. You take it like a good bitch, y'hear? You gotta...you gotta do thezzzze thingssssh, y'know? Jus' say "Yes Ma'am" and don't make a fusshhhh."

But Talar had never expected the woman to actually turn up. After all, hadn't she effectively bid her farewell at the end of the interview?

"Secretary Delacourt, Ma'am," Talar had stumbled, "what a pleasant surprise!" She had caught the almost imperceptible snicker on Heidi Bryant's model-esque features, which sent a jolt of irritation through her. Talar's fake, composed front was as transparent as an Elysian window.

"The more I thought about it," replied the copper-blonde, in a starkly amicable register, "the more I felt you deserved a little more than our average employee. That's why Mr. Lang, Ms. Bryant and myself are accompanying you, to personally show you around your new workplace and ensure you're properly settled."

That was possibly the last thing she had wanted to hear. A few minutes with the Big Boss was traumatic enough; several hours would give her PTSD. To her overwhelming relief, though, no cryptic looks or winks had ensued, let alone pinching of asses; although, piqued by curiosity, the temptation to glance her superior's now infamous calves had sunk its pointy little teeth into her a few times. Under the implacable gaze of Heidi Bryant, however, doing so would have earned her a reputation far worse than her current 'social misfit' status.

Another small mercy was the transport, with Talar's two suitcases being her only company on the one hour flight to her new home. Having never travelled outside of the space station before, and having received only the most basic of briefing from Lang, she hadn't known what to expect of interstellar travel, and her excitement upon the shuttle doors finally closing would have been so evident upon her face that Bryant would no doubt have made something less than complimentary out of it amongst her colleagues.

_That Talar Sampson; she's an _objective sexual_, don't you know?_

The flight had been surprisingly unremarkable, the only discomfort occurring during what Lang had called atmospheric re-entry, when the shuttle had violently shook and rattled for several minutes. "It feels worse than it is," he had assured her, and she'd had no reason to distrust him. Thousands of trips were made to Earth each year, and to her knowledge, not one of them had ended in disaster. The Fulgar shuttles, which doubled as aircars, were infinitely more robust than they appeared, thanks to paper-thin but extremely mighty state of the art heat resistant materials and insulating tiles.

The shuttles had landed intact, and at 0930, Talar stepped out into the Nevada high desert – the land that had become her new home.

None of the 20 isolated properties had particularly appealed to her. What they boasted in air-tight security which was absolutely crucial given their remote locations, they lacked in modesty, all far exceeding the space required for a sole occupant. Situated smack bang in what could only be described as the True Middle of Absolutely Fucking Nowhere, the closest match – and that was putting it loosely - to her five room annex was a ludicrously spacious, one-storey house in what was termed 'Desert Modernism' style - a clean, uncomplicated aesthetic, reminiscent of the Alexander and Kaufman houses of mid 20th Century Palm Springs California, that she had learned about in Architectural Studies. 2000 square feet of cream-white walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, wide overhangs, and semi open-plan interiors with transparent dividers as walls, laid onto a cream, mottled, Italian marble floor. Two bedrooms; one master bathroom; two toilets; dining room; living room; and expansive kitchen. An equally generous garden, fringed with an assortment of cacti and palm trees, and boasting a patio, swimming pool and small gazebo, completed the picture, amping up the total area to 4000 sq feet. The furnishings and décor were attractive if not generic, pertaining more to a hotel penthouse than a home, but it would do. No doubt about it, it was an Elysian house, and about as humble as those things got; although in Elysian terms it was positively shack-like.

It mildly perturbed her, though, that out of all the houses on Elysium and in the CCB's Earth database – the vast majority being Tuscan, Prairie, châteauesque, Spanish colonial, Renaissance revival, or Streamline Moderne - this particular one bore the closest resemblance to that of Mr. No.1 on the Dirtiest Agents List. She had to hand it to him, though, he had good taste when it came to architecture. The frippery and finery of all but the so-called Streamline Modernes looked too busy, and the Streamline Modernes themselves – a facet of the Art Deco movement – looked anything but streamline; ugly clunky things with curved edges and a mixture of claustrophobic, glass block and metal casement windows, that wouldn't have looked out of place on a prison.

When the two Fulgar shuttles had touched down, the reason for her superiors' comparatively casual dress code became abundantly clear. It was for the exact same reason Lang had handed her military-style goggles before leaving the foyer: Nevada's Clark County desert was windy, hot even at this early in the morning, and it was dusty as hell, the wisps of air stirring up particles of arid earth in manic swirls and then blasting them everywhere. No wonder her aircar was going to be lodged in an underground garage; stepping out into this maelstrom for a mere thirty seconds would leave anyone thoroughly coated in dirt. She hoped her workplace, 240 miles away, would escape the travelling dust channels, otherwise she would have to travel between the parking lot and main entry point in nothing less than a hazmat suit.

The plus point of the inhospitable climate, however, was a lack of rattlesnakes; or so she had been assured. They always favored the shade. Scorpions and spiders, however, were less discerning. Of course, the spiders would have to be, wouldn't they?

Whilst Lang and Bryant removed her luggage from the shuttle, she had turned a slow circle, taking in the scene as the dust flared around her. Flat ground, peppered with sand-coloured shrubs, stretched seemingly forever, interspersed with mountains in the north. No sight of any roads; the nearest, Route 95, being several miles to the west. Sweeping skies with cirrus clouds to the east, and high opposite, the torus. Depending on the time of year, and weather, apparently it was visible for around 6 hours per day, similar to Earth's oldest satellite – the moon.

_Look at that,_ she had marvelled to herself, _just look at that. _

Artificiality had never felt so beautiful, so wondrous, before.

But no wonder she needed four droids, electronically-coded locks for every opening, and 360 degree CCTV – if someone decided to besiege her out here, the nearest neighbors, the remote settlement of Searchlight and its even tinier and more remote cousins Cal-Nev-Ari and Palm Gardens, were both tens of miles away. Nevertheless, the only way anyone could possibly thwart those security measures would be through highly sophisticated code decrypting software, mortar fire, or some other explosive device; and none of those were likely to happen... that was, unless she managed to severely piss off the Lithuanian whizz kid, or Mr. Dirtiest on the List, to the point where her station offered no protection from them. But that wasn't likely to happen, was it?

So, at 0940 hours, Talar lay atop her plush king-size bed, having been allowed fifteen minutes rest whilst her superiors sat at the walnut veneer kitchen table, drinking coffee which Lang had brought as a token house warming gift. It seemed like the most absurd turn of events; a week ago she was a lowly admin girl with no prospects of career advancement, and now here she was working on Earth, with the head of the CCB and the Chief Gossiper in General relaxing at her kitchen table, in a ludicrously surreal state of domesticity. It was only ever meant to be Lang, and doing nothing so familiar, at that.

_She fancies me. Shit. She fancies me. _

_No, she doesn't. Come on._

_Then why is she here? Do you really believe all that "show you around because you're the first woman on the job" nonsense?_

_Yes I do..or at least, I want to._

_But is that good enough?_

_Quit it. _

She sat up, physically shaking her head to try and dislodge the errant thoughts. Warm morning sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors, which lead onto the patio, gave the room a gorgeously bright, airy ambience, almost akin to that of the torus. It caressed her face and bare arms in a golden, glowing whisper, welcoming her, telling her she'd feel right at home here. Having to work with certain agents would indeed challenge her, take her right out of her comfort zone, but here she would feel like a proper Elysian again... although whether she was entirely comfortable with that reminder, she wasn't sure. Still, she'd hardly call it grounds for complaining.

She toyed with the idea of getting changed, and covering her dust-blasted plait with a hat, but decided against it. Today was for settling in, not working, and any agents who happened to be in the club would be circumspect enough to mind their own business, especially with Delacourt present. After touring her new workplace, she would be allowed to spend the day freely, taking the shuttle – which was to double as her aircar – to survey the local area if she wanted, or even the entire state. Travel to anywhere within Nevada was covered by the Bureau. The idea of Las Vegas quite took her fancy; centuries since its construction, it remained the gambling capital of the world, and a major attraction even for Elysians, which was saying something. It would be interesting to know what all the fuss was about.

And there was also the morbidly curious child in her that wanted to visit Boulder City – the place where Andrew Chisholm had met his untimely death – but that would feel horribly like tempting fate. Aircars and Fulgar shuttles were the preferred methods of transport by wealthy inhabitants of Earth, and not uncommon in more productive areas, so no-one would necessarily twig that she was from the big bicycle wheel in the sky; but all the same, she didn't want to chance it.

She shuffled off the bed, stood up and brushed herself down for the third time, knowing the house droids would clean it when she left, then made her way back to civilization as she knew it. Three heads turned to face her as she entered the kitchen, and for a moment, she somehow felt even more self conscious than in the lobby that morning. What if Delacourt really did have sexual designs on her? Not that the woman, with her slender physique and shoulder-length copper-blonde bob, wasn't attractive; but she was...a megabitch, and a master bureaucrat... and related to Heidi Bryant.

"Thank you so much for waiting," she said with a gracious nod, picking up the mug of coffee Lang had made for her. The trio nodded back.

Having forgotten to request cream and sugar, she went to the fridge to locate the former herself. Thanks to the Bureau's outsourced shopping agency, whose entry into the property was controlled from HQ, the enormous fridge and freezer were already stocked with the essentials, and a plethora of the superfluous.

"They're on call 24-7," Lang had said yesterday at their pre-journey meeting.

_Just in case I need to order truffles, caviar and Krug champagne at 3am,_ Talar had thought. She certainly wouldn't be ordering Krug champagne. Not now.

Another of the CCB's own privately contracted agencies, staffed by Armadyne droids, handled all the other vitals, too - plumbing, electricals, waste management, emergency services – whilst the household droids dealt with menial chores. An automated skip shuttle stopped by every afternoon to collect inorganic waste, whilst a septic tank took care of organic waste. Water was sourced via a private pipeline from Lake Mohave, then treated by the property's own autonomous system.

She poured an unhealthy amount of creamy calories into the warm drink, then three teaspoons of sugary awfulness, and downed the thing in less than thirty seconds, eager to get the pleasantries over and done with. Lang being there wouldn't have bothered her, but there was something distinctly perturbing about the other two being sat at her table.

"Ready?" Delacourt asked, still in that ridiculously informal tone.

Talar nodded.

* * *

23 minutes and 240miles later, the two shuttles landed in the concrete parking lot of the 0.3 square mile industrial park of Nye County's Area 20. The two senior women disembarked first, followed by Talar, who had this time been accompanied by Lang. Theirs were the only vehicles in the vicinity, save a drab-looking cargo shuttle. At 10:25, the temperature was picking up, and the sun becoming garishly bright; forcing Talar to don her sunglasses in order to glance upwards at the 66ft high mesh fences surrounding the complex. A locked entry gate stood a couple hundred feet to her left, set into the fence, and a network of rectangular, beige, 15,000 square foot warehouses sprawled before her like a giant computer chip. Unused warehouses, Chisholm had told her, all completely hollow. Obviously a damn good ruse, because no intruders had ever set foot upon the property. If that were to happen, however, they would have their work cut out trying to access the club, as Talar found out for herself mere minutes later.

"Scenic, isn't it?" joked Delacourt drolly as the quartet traversed the 150foot distance to the closest warehouse. Bryant and Lang giggled, Talar only managing to join on the tail end of the others, due to the utter shock of hearing the mighty Defense Secretary actually crack a joke. June 18, 2144 was going to go down in her calender as Officially the Weirdest Day Ever Recorded.

_Why, madam Secretary Delacourt; your cold, impersonal demeanor is markedly less pronounced today. Are you in heat, my dear?_

_Stop it. Stop it now. She does not fancy you. Just like Mr. Annihilistic Personality Disorder and his Chipper Chums will not dare touch you. Nothing to worry about._

The industrial sized high speed door was fitted not only with a coded lock, but what appeared to be a retina scanner. Talar watched as Delacourt's slim fingers punched in a 6 digit number, to which the system beeped, then as a gossamer white beam scanned a lightning fast path from the woman's head to toe.

"DNA coded," she explained, matter-of-factly.

The door shot open horizontally, admitting her entry, then shot closed behind her. Bryant followed suit.

"The number is 625479," said Lang.

"625479..." Talar repeated. "Got it."

She repeated the number over and over until punching it in - the keypad beeped - then waited the two seconds for the scanner to read her. Zhoop! Door open, admitting her entry to a cool, vacant room with a pearlized grey concrete floor, polished to a radiant shine. In fact, she was yet to see a floor so shiny. Evidently one of the designers had wanted to leave the Elysian stamp on the place; that, and the eight droids, two at each corner, Cousar Crowe rifles and ChemRail guns propped by their sides. Zhoop! Door closed. Talar turned to see the same coded lock and DNA scanner on the inside.

"Like the floor?" Delacourt asked, a cryptic expression sneaking back into her refined features.

Talar turned to face her, curiosity piquing. "It's certainly Elysian," she replied.

The petite woman nodded. "Very. This isn't just reinforced concrete you're standing on; every entry point and level in the building contains a layer of sealed graphene – the hardest substance known to man, and one of the most difficult and costly to mass produce. If anyone tried to force their way in, there would be next to no chance of getting past this material."

"Like Fort Knox, eh?" Talar mused aloud. the Armadyne Depository, ex United States Bullion Depository before Caryle's corporation bought it up in 2088 for 'unknown purposes', was still referred to as Fort Knox, and continued to reign supreme as the most impenetrable facility on Earth.

Delacourt fixed her with a wry smirk; "There's more."

"How many levels?"

"Four in total, counting this and the club itself."

The Defense Secretary led them to an industrially heavy but normal sized door in the middle of the opposite wall, where they repeated the code and DNA scan. This door opened sideways, leading to a vestibule barely 8 feet wide, which veered 15 feet to the right. At the end of the vestibule was a glass and chrome elevator, just about big enough for the four of them. There were no call buttons; only the now familiar security device, which now featured a tiny grill above the keypad.

Delacourt repeated the procedure, but, as the elevator doors parted, spoke into the grill "suspend all locks." This time, the doors remained open until the entire party had boarded. An identical device, grafted into the chrome wall, took the woman's order to "reinstate all locks", before closing the doors. The vessel began gliding swiftly downwards, leaving the vestibule far behind it in the blink of an eye.

"We don't generally advocate this outside of an emergency," she explained, "but if, for some reason you need to get through the process a hurry, it is permissible to override the protocol. You do this by saying "suspend all locks", which does exactly what it says. When you do that, your wrist device-" she held up her hand to exhibit the thin, stylish bangle - platinum, diamond encrusted - which looked deceptively like a normal piece of jewelry except for one tiny LED rectangle, "-will beep in time with your pulse, and continue to do so until you "reinstate" all the locks. If you do not do this within ten minutes, the locks will reinstate themselves."

"That particular command is DNA and voice coded to a select few," Lang added, "namely, the four of us, Ms. Asan-" Priyanka Asan, Delacourt's PA, "and President Patel."

"I have a question, Ma'am, Sir."

"Go ahead," Delacourt said, her cordiality never failing to leave Talar rattled.

"What if, for example, I'm accosted outside by someone - a gang... a group of terrorists – and they use me to gain entry? I assume that's what the droids are for, but can they be suspended too?"

"Good question," the older woman replied reverently, "because I was going to come to that shortly. This place is a fortress by any other name. Any system that can be bypassed, can also be countered by another system. Even if someone gained unauthorized access, they would never escape alive. If entry were to be gained in the way you suggest, then yes, the droids could also be suspended via voice command. Your voice only. However, there are hidden cameras, linked to HQ, around the entire perimeter of the building, and the unit on the far side of the complex holds a battalion of armored droids who have access to the club in the same way as we do here. Even if the cameras were disabled, the walls, the droids, the security devices and even your bracelet have sensors attuned to a highly specific frequency; all you need do is say the code word - "you don't need to do this" - and the droids in the far warehouse will instantly be deployed to the club. By the time you reach the door, they'll be ready to strike; and in the event that you are injured – which is highly unlikely, as they are programmed to avoid harming you at all costs – you will immediately be taken to a medbay. So, does that answer your question?"

Talar nodded. "Yes Ma'am."

"And for the record, the unit and elevators on the far side cannot be accessed by anyone other than the droids deployed to it. They simply do not recognize organic DNA. And the droids there cannot be disabled or reprogrammed. To that effect, there is absolutely zero chance of an ambush coming from there. It is a completely water-tight system."

Talar didn't dare ask her if it was one the Bureau had actually tested. Nevertheless, the complete lack of trouble in the place's entire history spoke for itself. The only thing she had to worry about here was...

_Shit, Tal,_ she imagined Yasmin saying, _for someone who enjoys stepping outside her comfort zone, you're acting like a fucking _girl. _If you're feeling like this now when you've not even met the guy, you're gonna need a whole goddamn toilet strapped to you when he walks in._

_Him, _and_ his little mercenary army. They're gonna eat me alive if I stumble._

_Well if all else fails, trust the droids. That's what they're there for._

She forced herself not to sigh. She was here now, and turning back wasn't even an option.

The elevator stopped.

"Open," Delacourt commanded the keypad, then as the doors parted, "Suspend all locks". She turned to Talar and continued, with that horribly unsettling smile, "In all other instances, just say 'open'."

Talar wasn't quite sure what to make of the woman's gesture, except that she was actually coming to prefer the IceMaiden to this incongruously friendly imposter.

After the group exited into a new vestibule, smaller than the one above, the elevator shot back up.

"How far down are we?" Talar asked as they stepped out.

"50 meters (164.5ft)," answered Lang. "The next one is twice that."

Talar surveyed the compact surroundings. It was as if they were encased in pure obsidian - glassy, pitch black walls and floor, with a narrow strip of slowly color-changing light – white, electric blue, turquoise, lime green, neon yellow, and back to white - running along each corner, bright enough to provide adequate illumination without being garishly harsh. Effortlessly minimal, but strikingly effective.

Delacourt caught her admiring it, remarking with that same mysterious half-smile, "James Turrel** designed the vestibules."

Talar vaguely recalled the name - one from Art Studies - although the exact details evaded her. Something to do with lights and illuminations.

"He did a good job," she replied, hoping her relative ignorance wasn't too obvious. If it was, the paler-haired woman spared her the humiliation.

A split second later, another elevator rose up to meet them.

The quartet boarded, and the next descent began.

"You'll like the club even more," offered Lang, "Leo Villareal did the lighting for that."

The descent continued.

* * *

**AN 2**

Another little tidbit: just as Blomkamp referenced real organisations and South African customs in the film, so have I referenced real places. Area 20, which is the zone encompassing the industrial complex housing the agency's top secret club, owes its name to the real life Nye County's Area 20, aka Pahute Mesa – one of the controversial nuclear testing regions in the Nevada National Security Site (NNSS; formally Nevada Test Site). I've taken a few liberties with the fictional Area 20's location, but it's based on that actual area. Also, as a Valve fan, I couldn't resist having the club's location in Nye County, due to the name of a certain road out there being Back (yes, without the 'l') Mesa Road. Who knows, maybe we'll have an Agent Freeman and Agent Rattmann at the club later ;), with combustible lemons as weapons.


	4. UPPERMOST – Discover Life

**CHAPTER 4**

"I'm sure it's money well spent," Talar nodded, feigning an impressed stance. Next thing she knew, Lang would probably be telling her that some universally-acclaimed sculptor had personally crafted the basins in the club's toilets, yet she would still have little or no clue who this superstar was. Were they really trying to gage her worldly acumen, or lack thereof? And, added that niggling little voice in the back of her head, would Heidi Bryant have the whole Bureau know about it?

_Look at it this way,_ her sensibility countered it, _getting all self conscious isn't exactly going to help you here. What happens happens. Move on._

Her sensibility was of course correct - it wasn't as if there was anything she could do to change matters. Talar had always taken pride in that strictly rational, pragmatic aspect of her own character; the part that Yasmin's brutal honesty had helped nurture and realize. It was a substitute for having a thick skin, and had at least been enough to get her through working life at the Bureau without constantly chewing herself to death over her lack of social prowess and career advancement.

Quicker than expected, the elevator stopped, and seconds later they were waiting in a vestibule the polar opposite of the previous one. This one was glowing bright, with large, backlit panelled walls, floor and ceiling, morphing gradually, seamlessly from pure white, to that startling neon yellow, day-glow green, shimmering aqua, piercing electric blue; then on to violet, shocking pink, sunset peach, golden orange, and finally fading out to perfect white again. What would otherwise have been a claustrophobic little box now made for a captivating, almost hallucinatory dream-space; a place to stay and immerse yourself in, rather than a mere waiting platform you'd be lucky to spend one minute in. All they needed was a smooth-jazz track of "The Girl From Ipanema" and it would make the perfect platform to the trippier realms of the cosmos.

Heaven knew how much the Bureau had spent on this little microcosm alone – and continued spending, if the electricity was functioning at this output the entire time; unless of course it was motion sensitive and turned itself on and off with the coming and going of elevators - for what was essentially a minuscule group of people.

Yes, this was how Elysian authorities spent their money, and unashamedly so.

The third elevator arrived.

"Another 100 meters," said Lang, "then we're there."

Initially, Talar would have thought 250 meters a bit paranoid for a secret den; but on second thoughts, it wasn't really all that deep, and, for protecting some of Elysium's most valuable assets, neither was it particularly excessive.

Whether through intuition, freakish coincidence, or psychic ability, Lang continued, "This structure really is a fortress, you know. If you think 250 meters and all the sealed graphene weren't enough, the walls are a 3 meter thick mix of reinforced concrete and steel mesh, and there are also buffer corridors spanning the entire perimeter, to mitigate the damage from any potential blasts. You could can withstand a two-ton bomb down here. And in the event that there was nuclear fallout, the place has its own self powering electricity generator, water treatment plant and air filtering system; not to mention enough rations to last 110 people a year, and 110 nuclear protective suits."

"Just incase, no?" Delacourt chimed in, half smirking, to which Heidi Bryant gave a fawning, ladylike little giggle. In such close quarters, it struck Talar as even more irritating.

"Ma'am," Talar addressed the petite Quebecois, getting the woman's scarily amiable smile in response, "how many times have you visited this place?"

"Several times a year," she replied in a non-committal tone. "Why?"

"I was just wondering how busy it gets. Have you ever visited when it was really busy?"

_And if, at any time, you happened to run into a group of macho South African ex cons, headed by-_

"On a few occasions, yes. But it really does vary, seemingly for no reason. Some days you may get 75 people just in the evening, whereas others you can go a full twelve hours with no more than twenty; discounting personal briefings, that is. I've been here when it's crowded, and equally, when it's empty."

"Are there any particular agents who stop by the most?"

She had already discussed Kruger's patronage with Lang upon calling him back into the interview room, but from her right hand side, she felt rather than saw Heidi Bryant shoot her peculiar look.

_That Talar Sampson; she was absolutely shitting herself over the South African guys, don't you know! Absolutely petrified! She won't last long down there. Best place your bets now before she resigns!_

"Overall, the ones in intelligence and based in North America. But it really does vary."

"Sometimes a group of the Gen 1s decide to almost...camp out here, for days at a time," added Bryant, in a guileless tone that was probably fooling no-one but that she would undoubtedly get away with for being Delacourt's relative.

If, at that moment, Talar could have murdered anyone with impunity, it would have been Bryant. Even the most innocuous seeming comment didn't get past that auburn-haired menace.

Just as she had expected, the smug little madam didn't even get shushed.

"But on the whole," Bryant continued, "that's rare. And obviously, besides briefings, you don't have to fraternize with them."

_...so don't concern your poor little self, Cowardly Miss Sampson. There there._

Talar forced the most plausibly genuine smile she had ever mustered. Bryant countered her with one equally as award-worthy.

Moments later, the elevator doors opened onto a third vestibule; this one, a platform preceding a long-drop stairwell decked out in backlit panelled walls, transmuting slowly and gracefully between aqua blue and white. Lang lead them down a one-storey helical staircase - laminated glass treads, glowing the same vibrant aqua thanks to LED accents at either side, accompanied by an unlit glass balustrade iced with a whisper of stainless steel for a handrail. Talar couldn't help but marvel at it; like the CCB headquarters themselves, the entire place was a visual delight, and she hadn't even reached the club yet.

The stairwell ended in the center of a compact foyer, with identical fittings to the vestibule above. Two rifle-brandishing droids guarded the left hand wall.

"They're responsible for the cloakroom," explained Lang, turning around to point at the wall running behind the stairs.

"To date, there's never been a mix up," added Delacourt, to predictable chuckles from the other two and another forced one from Talar.

One final checkpoint, and the wide, electric door slid open, into the commodious club.

The first thing that struck Talar was how airy the place seemed; as pleasant and fresh as an outdoor pavilion on the torus. Obviously the air down here was filtered, but she would have expected an underground venue to seem at least a little stuffy.

Music played overhead, some bland little ditty that offset the unabashed spendor of its surroundings.

"Please, take a look around," Delacourt said with a perfunctory smile, which Talar supposed was a cordially veiled order.

"Would you like a drink?" asked Lang. "We've got everything at the bar."

"Still water would be great, thanks."

Lang nodded, making his way across the glossy, pitch-black expanse of floor to the bar - a sleek, equally glossy and pitch-black structure, fringed by slim lines of fine white LEDs. Delacourt and Bryant seated themselves on barstools that would have been nearly invisible if not for their cushioned black seats. Lang called to the four droids standing sentry behind the bar, and Talar watched as two sprang into action, one producing a highball glass so quickly it appeared to be out of nowhere, then filling it with ice and a garnish of lemon, and the other slinging a bottle from the fridge and popping the cap, in no longer than five seconds. Lang rushed back over, handed Talar her drink, and then joined the others, leaving Talar to follow her directive.

To call it 'visually arresting' wouldn't have done the place justice. What immediately caught her attention were the walls; massive floor-to-ceiling video screens, displaying a synchronized, panoramic wrap-around slideshow of static 3D photographs, changing what she estimated to be around every 20 seconds. The roof, too, was an extension of those screens, replicating the sky. It was like being inside a living world, separated only by transparent glass from landscapes so strikingly realistic, that. had she not known she was inside a club hundreds of feet underground, and had there not been a passageway breaking the continuity beside the entrance door, she would certainly have been fooled.

The first was a night-time, aerial cityscape of the torus' vast and vibrant entertainment district; sleek skyscrapers, pavilions and bridges, highlighted with LED strip lighting and tasteful fluorescent and neon accents. The second, another nocturnal shot, this time looking upward at a starry, dark indigo sky from a glittering but bleak, snow-carpeted landscape, with widely-spaced candle-like sculptures that more resembled calcified rocks than snow-covered trees. The tiny legend at the bottom right corner of the screen read "Trysil, Norway, 2143".

In the third, a blood-red seascape of Bolivia's Laguna Colorada, also dated 2143, followed by the alien landscape of Thor Peak in Canada's Auyuittuq National Park. Same date. And then, the spectacular azure blue of Earth as seen from the torus, like a resplendent jewel floating in space. No date. The place may have been a relative dump compared with the impossible opulence of Elysium, but from a distance it looked magnificent.

It only dawned on her how long she had stood there, captivated by the scene, when Lang's German-accented voice cut through her reverie, startling her. Talar hadn't even noticed him approach her from behind.

"They change every 20 seconds," he said.

"These were all taken last year..." she aloud. "Do those places still exist?"

He nodded, then, with a wistful smile, continued, "There are still many, many beautiful places on Earth-"

_And I wish I could spend more time here,_ that smile said.

"We have a team travel around every year, documenting them for our database, 10,000 of which we use here."

"Only 10,000?" she ventured, jokily. The situation had become informal enough for slight touches of humor here and there.

Lang responded with a small chuckle. "And they're on permanent shuffle, so you never see the same sequence twice."

"What about the music?"

"Oh, we've got over a million tracks. They're on permanent shuffle, too; although you can organize your own playlists, and there's a palmtop attached to each table so the agents can request anything they want."

"Wow.. You really have pulled out all the stops here."

"We do our best-" for a moment, Talar could have sworn something flashed through the man's pale eyes - he had faltered for an instant – although it wasn't any immediately recognizable emotion, "-although we don't serve meals."

Then he was gone again, off towards the passageway to the direct left of the entrance door which now comprised part of the video screen. Talar wondered what that tiny flicker had meant. Perhaps he was ashamed that they didn't serve meals? Or maybe the system was prone to glitches, and she was just lucky to have arrived on a good day? She didn't dwell on it.

The room looked around the size of her new Earth house – a good 2000 sq ft at least. At the far left corner sat a lucite dining table, accommodating eight black leather upholstered lucite chairs. Its twin sat several meters away from the far right corner, parallel with the entrance door. Against the video wall, in between, were a series of sofas with matching black sofa chairs clustered around lucite coffee tables, and a few meters each side of the bar stood a high table and four stools. The bar itself seated eight. Upon closer inspection of the lounge area, Talar noticed grooves in the floor between and in front of each cluster. Lang chose that moment to materialize beside her, nearly making her jump for the second time.

For crying out loud, she shouldn't still be this nervous.

"Those are for screens," he pointed out. "If someone's sat here smoking, the smoke detector raises the screens, effectively sealing the area, so that others don't have to breathe it in. As soon as the smoke stops, the extractor fan kicks in and the screens retract."

"Nice," Talar nodded. As a smoker herself she had always lamented having to trot outside just to get her fix. Even the formidable medbays couldn't cure addiction, and ironically, that would be the one thing she would choose to use them for. "Is it the same in my office, or...? Am I permitted to smoke in there?"

"Of course you are. And yes, there are extractor fans in there, too. You could chain smoke and it would still be fresh as a summer breeze."

Talar smiled, sipping her drink.

She walked over to the passageway set back from the lounge area, Lang towing her. Around twenty feet down, two glossy, midnight-dark, walls, framed by tracks of white light, led to an opening onto a t-junction which disappeared behind the lounge walls. At the end of the passageway, two shining LED logos, embedded in the onyx-black wall, pointed to the respective male and female toilets. No disabled, though; the Bureau obviously weren't an equal opportunities employer.

"You have your own toilet by your office," Lang said.

"Mind if I go and take a look?"

"Not at all."

Talar traversed the corridor to the t-junction, then turned right in the direction of the ladies' toilets. In keeping with everything else she had seen thus far, the room was spotless. It boasted the same color scheme as the lounge, with wall and ceiling video screens, but the floor was panelled and glowing white, and the six cubicles and their respective basins were also white. Two minutes later, she discovered the mens' was the same.

Well damn, you could take the workplace out of Elysium, but you couldn't take Elysium out of the workplace.

Emerging into the main space, she noticed the vague outline of a door at the corner of the left hand wall.

"What's that over there?" she asked, pointing.

His eyes on the door and not her, Lang replied, in what could have been a tellingly hurried manner, "That's in your manual. File 12."

He had told her yesterday that there were some things, simple things, that didn't really merit explanation, and that such things could be found in a dossier on the computer. But his reply seemed a little hasty. Perhaps he was just impatient to get the tour over and done with – maybe he had bladder issues and, despite having gone to the toilet only minutes before, already needed to go again? Or maybe he was eager to be away from Bryant and her superior? It was probably nothing. Given the meticulously high standard of tidiness and order at the Bureau, it could simply be that that particular room was a store cupboard with a marginally misaligned shelf. One paperclip out of place would have been enough to make most CCB employees have a fit.

A second passed, before Lang chimed, "Shall we go and see your office?"

Talar nodded. She followed him back to the bar, where the other two women stood up, both neatly uncrossing their legs and swivelling their bodies round, to hop down with a grace and poise alien to Talar's often clumsy movements. Bar stools were an obstacle she had never learned to navigate, especially when wearing heels. It was a quality her brothers and Yasmin found endearing, but that never failed to irritate her. There was absolutely no reason getting down from a bar stool should be such an ordeal, but for her, it was.

With Lang at her front and Delacourt and Bryant at her back, Talar was led to the left side of the counter, where a droid opened a small gate to allow them into the bar proper. In the middle of the bar, flanked by two clear, backlit cabinets, both housing a series of transparent shelves crammed with an impressive variety of drinks, stood a transparent door. It opened instantly, without anyone's command, giving way to an ample corridor approximately 50 feet long. Gleaming, slightly off-white floor and ceiling. Widely panelled, backlit walls, echoing the smooth transitions between white and blue of the previous vestibule.

There was a door – trussed up like the wall - almost immediately to her left, and another one at the end of the left hand wall. Four more doors were spaced evenly along the right hand wall.

"Far left," said Lang, "is the store cupboard for a nuclear emergency. In there you'll find the nuke suits, the rations, additional breathing apparatus, etc. On the right is the toilet, then the kitchenette, the stock room, and finally the medbay room."

Talar wondered why he would explain those basic things and not the door in the lounge, but quickly reasoned the latter was probably something irrelevant. Either that, it was a portal to another dimension; a parallel universe where Heidi Bryant could be trusted to keep secrets, and agents by the name of C.M. Kruger never visited the Bureau's underground clubs.

_Oh for fuck's sake..._ There was absolutely no reason for someone she had never met, and who was forbidden from harming her, to be messing with her head like this. It was ludicrous. It had been a long, long time since she'd found such difficulty in keeping that horrible little dissenting voice at bay; the one that railed against all her practicality and rationality and just ran around wild, driven by childish emotion. Not even Superbitch Gossip Monger Bryant was capable of doing that.

Opening the first door for her, Lang said with a warm smile, "And welcome to your new office."

Stepping inside, Talar could only mouth another silent 'wow'. As with the rest of the facility, no expense had been spared – approximately 700 square foot of bright space, with what could have easily been mistaken for a floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking a vast metropolis, had she not already seen the screens in the club. The picture faded into a breath-taking aerial shot of Zambia's Victoria Falls, which then morphed into a stunning nocturnal capture of a bioluminescent shoreline of Puerto Mosquito, Puerto Rico.

"You can turn the slideshow off in here if you find it too distracting," commented Lang, "or pause it, choose from one of our 100 screensavers, or even select your own loop if you wish. Although the office has the same photos as the club itself, they're controlled from separate areas. HQ sets the ones out there, whereas you can control the ones in here if you feel like it. Very simple procedure, just like making any photographic slideshow or musical playlist. You can play music in here, too, if you wish."

"Thanks," Talar replied, giving a curt nod.

Unlike the club, however, the ceiling was the same off-white as that of the corridor, with three lines of recessed LED lights running the length of the ceiling. The floor, too, matched the corridor's. Smack bang in the center of the room, in the middle of a cream, velvety rug, stood an ample lucite desk. An admin droid sat unoccupied at the desk, in a chrome and cream leather swivel chair, facing the opposite wall. On the shiny surface, two razor-thin laptops, equipped with wireless battery chargers, sat upright, their transparent LCD monitors reflecting the image on the screens around them.

Lang went on, "The left laptop is for your work, and correspondence with us. The right contains the manual, and the music and visuals databases, all of which are self explanatory."

She nodded.

"So," the notably less clipped Delacourt spoke up, "what do you think?"

"I love it," Talar enthused. Her reply was genuine, even if the warmth she attempted to put in it wasn't so much. "I love everything here. It's just beautiful."

And she meant it. The place was a triumph of architecture, art, and design, just like the habitat she had grown up in. It was almost as if she hadn't left home at all.

She waited on another name drop, but it never came. Instead, "Good, because 12 hours a day is a long time."

Requisite chuckles from the other two.

That had been one of her few gripes, albeit minor, about the position. 9am-9pm, five days a week. Even two hours in total for breaks and lunch, which could be taken whenever she chose, still left a working day two hours longer than her normal one; and whilst the work wasn't complicated or difficult, there was a lot of it. But with surroundings like this, it would be infinitely more bearable...even with a group of South African ex cons hanging out in the lounge. Or at least, she hoped.

"Just make sure you don't end up lost in daydreams for most of it. We don't pay for overtime. And Henry here-" she tilted her head at the droid, "-will only step in for you in emergencies."

"That won't be a problem, Ma'am."

The copper-blonde woman fixed her with yet another off-putting smile – one that appeared deeper than merely perfunctory, although Talar still couldn't fathom as to why – before turning to usher the group out of the office.

Just as they reached the door, Talar heard a beep. Delacourt turned, promptly striding over to the desk. Lang and Bryant stayed put, but Talar followed. On the left laptop, a pop-up screen in the Bureau's distinctive black and orange color scheme now decorated the monitor. In her two day training for the position, Talar had learned that this was notification of an agent entering, and later leaving, the warehouse. It also appeared on the wrist comm device she would have to wear during breaks.

The text on the pop-up read: "ARRIVAL. Agent A. T. Botha." Arrivals and exits used only agents' real names, which was handy, given that their code names didn't seem to follow any specific alphanumeric structure. When questioned about this, Lang had told Talar that the First Generation – or the Gen 1s as they were commonly referred to – had been allowed to choose part of their code name, but that every generation since then had simply been designated them, although there was no telling an agent's generation simply from their code name.

Of the 100 files she had seen last week, Talar would have been hard pressed to remember many besides the top 5, even if shown their photos. By that merit, all she could conclude about Botha was that he, or she, wasn't one of the top ranking bad boys.

Delacourt turned to her charge. "Seeing as he's here, would you like to meet Botha?"

Talar had to think quickly – whether it was a genuine invitation or some sort of test, one thing the Defense Secretary despised was indecisiveness; another was dawdling. Fortunately, Talar wasn't regularly to prone to either, or at the very least could fake it.

"I would, Ma'am," she replied, forcing a confident nod; not that she was nervous or reluctant to meet this particular underling, but that she hadn't fully made up her own mind yet. She wondered for a moment whether this Botha guy had turned up to glimpse his new superior, but quickly reasoned against it. Officially her tenure began tomorrow, and although she knew that this had already been broadcast to the Earth-based assets, they would have had no way of knowing she was being shown around today...unless of course Botha was one of the aforementioned Gen 1s who, according to Bryant, camped out for a week... in which case he would probably be acquainted with-

_Shut up._

To Talar's reassurance, the older woman looked pleased.

"Do you remember which one he is?" gibed Bryant, in a nauseatingly angelic tone, to a complete lack of admonishment from the others.

"I'm afraid not," Talar responded, managing to sound semi-assertive. "I only saw his file once."

The rankings dossier, she had been informed, was different than the one used here. The latter was less extensive, Lang had said, and files were organized alphabetically.

"No matter," said Delacourt. "Within a week you'll probably know them all off by heart."

The position didn't require Talar to be versed in any of the agents' details, or even remember their code names. Hers was simply to deliver information to them and back to HQ; even briefing them in person happened with relative infrequency, as most operations could simply be relayed electronically.

"For your information, Botha is a Fifth Generation," explained Delacourt as she ushered Talar from the room.

_Thank fuck for that._

"A very talented young man from the Cape Flats in South Africa."

_Oh._

Fortunately, she didn't allow Talar a chance to respond, and neither did she study the younger woman's face as they walked; if she had, she would have seen the transitory but perceptible shift in demeanor that may have instilled doubt in her, perhaps ending Talar's career down here before it had even gotten off the ground. If there was another thing the Defense Secretary could not abide, it was people unfit for their positions. Until now, Talar had proved a sort of exception to the rule, having worked below her station for the better part of a decade.

"We found him thirty three years ago," she continued as she lead the group back into the bar proper. "A gangster and drug dealer, but with remarkable heart, believe it or not. What really impressed us, however, was his athleticism and fighting ability."

They exited the bar, seating themselves on the stools, Delacourt to the far right, followed by Talar, Lang, and lastly Bryant, who Talar heard ordering mineral waters for them all.

"We watched him for months, even had him protected without his knowledge, in case any sort of trouble were to befall him; not that he ever required our intervention. We'd never seen a man fight like that, with such stamina. And he never drove a vehicle; he used to sprint from place to place like an Olympic athlete, sometimes barefoot."

Four clinks of glass against a polished surface sounded before them. Damn, those droids were fast.

A genuine sparkle shone in the woman's eyes, and Talar realized she was witnessing yet another side to this IceMare of legend; a side enthusiastic about her work, and proud of her employees. A side that was capable of sincere, human emotions.

Or this was a clone. Given Elysian society's technological prowess, that wouldn't be entirely out of the question. That cloning was never spoken of meant nothing; after all, wasn't the Devil's finest trick to convince the world he didn't exist?

But if that were the case, then what if there were clones of Heidi Bryant, too?

_Oh Dear Lord..._ Then the woman's legacy of snideyness would truly never die. And what if there were clones of-

_Do you want to drive yourself to self destruction? Because you're going the right way about it._

No. The Devil did exist, and her name was Heidi Bryant. Case closed.

"That's amazing," Talar replied, wanting to say more but nothing occurring to her other than that one, burning question, which she reckoned would be met with hysterics at best, or with scorn at worst.

_Yes, he's from South Africa so _of course _he knows the other guys. They probably all work in the same team or unit or cell or whatever it's called, simply because they're from the same country. Oh please._

"And in case you were wondering what he does, he's one of our so-called 'sleeper agents'. I say so-called because quite a few of them rarely do any 'sleeping'. He's based in Las Vegas but travels around the world mostly every week. Black ops."

Aka guard dogs. The really nasty ones, with the biggest teeth.

_OK, calm down. That still doesn't mean-_

"I'm sure you're aware that we have many of those. They are of course essential for our well-being."

"Absolutely," she replied, with a brisk nod, before taking a sip of water. Her bladder would be complaining soon - she'd only finished her first one five minutes ago. And then she made what would have been her second mistake – what would have surely given the lovely Miss Bryant yet more ammo, had her voice not been lowered, and had Bryant not been in conversation with Lang, "I did notice a number of South Africans, mostly from the late 20th and early 21st century."

_You world class fool, Tal. You absolute fucking imbecile. And how do you know she didn't overhear you anyway?_

Delacourt sipped her drink. "Indeed. Are you not familiar with people from that part of the world?" She looked honestly curious rather than judgemental.

"Not really."

"Many of our First Generation come from, and came from, there. It's always been a tough country to live in, even today, and produces some of the most formidable soldiers. Not always the most _personable_ of men, but consummate professionals when it comes to their work. We wouldn't be without them."

Another nod. It was somewhat heartening to hear the mighty Defense Secretary expressing some humility.

"Botha, however, is very personable. You'll have absolutely no problems with him."

And bang on cue, the entry door beeped.


	5. DR WILLIS – God of Abraham (Derb rmx)

**AN**

\- 'bog' is British slang for 'toilet'. Likewise, 'bog standard' is British slang for average, dull, or even mediocre. ~ as in the movie itself, we're just going to have to assume that today's slang still exists in 2144. One of the few vital suspensions of disbelief, I'm afraid; because much as I'd love to invent an entirely new vernacular, it wouldn't capture the cultural identities I'm trying to portray in this story.

\- by virtue of knowing a few South Africans from Germiston (who I credit with getting me to see D9 in the first place), I was fortunate enough to get some of the inside track on Kruger and his guys. Not giving anything away, but let's just say that if you're unfamiliar with 'Saffa' culture there will be certain things you'll miss when watching the film; and, furthermore, things you may (naturally) assume (and had I not seen Elysium with these wonderful gals, I would have assumed mistakenly, too).

\- Swanepoel is pronounced 'swah-ne-pool'.

* * *

**CHAPTER 5**

Henry the admin droid stood motionless in the corner, biding his time until his new superior decided to take a break. It was now approaching midday, and, save one cup of coffee and trip to the toilet, Talar had thus far robbed him of his newfound daytime duties. Good things droids didn't have feelings, because Talar got the sense old Henry would have been very precious about his position here.

Although her work day didn't begin until 0900, the place was open to her and the fellow agents 24/7, with droids manning the post in the hours of her absence. Looking every inch the businesswoman starlet she wasn't, she had arrived an hour before to browse the manual, the alphabetically ordered agents' dossier, the screensavers, and to create playlists for the lounge and her office. Beginning with the agents' dossier, she had skipped through the A's and B's – noting that, unlike the ranking dossier and even the alerts, middle initials were not included - until she stopped at Botha's file, lingering to read it, a faint smile on her face. True to Delacourt's word, the man was charming, and not in that false, simpering way so common at the Bureau. So friendly and easy going was he that Talar wondered how such a person could work in such a violent profession. Needs must, she guessed. When the Bureau recruited you, Yasmin had told her, they did so with an attractive paypacket that would have most people happily handing over their souls. They paid you to be able to compartmentalize.

Botha was attractive, too. A Cape Colored – which in South African terms meant diversely racially mixed, rather than simply half black and half white – with curly, close-cropped dark hair, caramel brown skin, and eyes of the most astoundingly pale turquoise Talar had ever seen, which looked all the more striking for his tan complexion and semi 'black' features. Twenty five for the last thirty three years, a little over six foot, and with a wiry, runner's physique, he was entirely the sort of man Talar went for. Four metal grafts adorned his face; one on each cheekbone, and matching ones slightly below his forehead, which Lang later explained were for the ease of keeping headgear on - goggles, visors, helmets, special glasses and the like. The only kicker was when he opened his mouth, to much-concealed amusement from the others in the group at her reaction. Whilst his accent was a strange, musical one, what really surprised her were his teeth – or rather, the lack of them. His four front teeth were missing; something Talar, coming from a world of flawless dentistry, had never seen in her entire life. Fortunately, either he had anticipated such a reaction, or he was too easy going to take offense, laughing genially and fixing her with a warm, reassuring smile. He had explained that the 'passion gap' or 'Cape Flats smile' was a Colored tradition harking back to the early 20th century, and that the Bureau had been lenient enough to let him keep it and wear dentures instead.

He was a regular at the club, he had said, whether with colleagues or alone. He often came there in the morning simply to gaze at the pretty pictures.

"I don't blame you," Talar had replied. When the venue was quiet, it made a wonderful place to relax and chill out. Had she been an asset on Earth, she would have gone out of her way to visit here, too.

She had left, secretly hoping he would turn up tomorrow and stay for her break, even though fraternizing with the assets was implicitly frowned upon... not that she got ahead of herself hoping anything would come of it, of course. His amicability didn't necessarily equate to any sort of romantic interest. Besides, a sweet guy like him probably had a girlfriend or wife, and wouldn't be the type to cheat on her.

The rest of the B's had flown by, as had the C's, until, bizarrely, something had caused her to pause at the one of ex South African Air Force pilot C. Crowe. She put it down to that strange sort of synchronicity that often occurred following something of impact; a chance meeting with a very attractive person with a rare first name, or from a little known place, suddenly had people of the same name or from the same place appearing everywhere. It didn't have to be of any consequence.

Neither had it been of any consequence that she lingered at Kruger's file. Curiosity at best. Morbid curiosity. And curiously, his first initial in this file was M, not C. It was highly uncommon for mistakes such as this to be made at the Bureau - although, she supposed, not impossible – so perhaps he had changed his name.

She had pushed Mr. Annihilistic Personality Disorder from her mind and promptly moved on, pausing only at R for the Lithuanian whizz kid's file. O. Ramanauskas. The O stood for Osvaldas, she remembered. She really hoped she would get to meet him, simply to see in the flesh the teenage boy who had brought down the entire New World Government and lived to tell the tale. Of course, it wasn't something she would dare discuss it with him, just in case; although monitored by members of Yasmin's team, the CCTVs all had audio as a precautionary measure against invaders or turncoats. Talar's alliance with the head of CCTV operations wouldn't have been enough to protect her from castigation if she were to speak out against the authorities. She had said as much to Yasmin last night over radio phone, the latter suggesting that if she had anything dissenting to say, say it when the place was crowded and the music loud, because then all sound was virtually unintelligible anyway. It was one of the scant few chinks in the security's armor, and Yasmin was surprised that a more sophisticated system hadn't been employed yet.

She had gotten a little sidetracked, perusing the agents' dossier, and the jaw-dropping quantity of photographs and musical tracks, at the expense of the manual. But there was no onus on her to get it read today - whatever lay behind that mysterious door would have to wait.

Come 0900, she was primed and ready for the day. And she was glad for it – the first assignment arrived at exactly 0901. In the two hours and fifty minutes since, eight agents had arrived; all of whom, just as Delacourt had said, were from intelligence, and none that she recalled from the higher ranks of the dirtiest list. Three had since left.

Then, a notification flashed up on her screen, immediately eliciting another smile.

Botha.

Although she wasn't hungry yet, she was technically at liberty to use her two hours of break time however she pleased. There was no reason why she couldn't spend five minutes making polite conversation with him, provided he was so inclined.

She continued working for the next four minutes – from the first point of egress it took five to reach the club proper - before rising from her desk.

"Break," she spoke into her bracelet, which instantly began clocking the seconds.

She snapped on her wrist comm – an impressive little device by the now Armadyne-owned Bulgari, fashioned in the style of a platinum wristwatch – and made her way out of the room, pausing briefly at the door to watch Henry take up her place.

She stepped into the bar moments before Botha did. He strode in confidently, dressed in military fatigues. He had a job with a few Gen 1s in several hours, she knew, in Liberia. Relayed to him yesterday by Henry, Delacourt had said; what was considered a 'non-essential' operation, which meant anything that didn't require instantaneous activation. She hadn't pressed the woman for further details; and, mercifully, Bryant hadn't offered any, which likely meant aforementioned Gen 1s weren't any of the guys Talar was worried about.

The Cape Colored greeted her with a surprised but legitimately pleased smile, which she mirrored with equal legitimacy. He took a seat at the bar, ordering a Castle lager. Talar noticed the absence of dentures.

"How's it going so far?" he asked genially, in that uniquely lyrical accent, as if she were an established friend rather than his superior.

"Fine," she replied honestly. "I didn't expect there to be so much going on so early in the day, frankly, but it's good. I like to keep busy."

"Definitely," he said. "But even if you weren't, you could never get bored here."

She nodded, glancing at the video walls, which currently displayed a glorious sunrise capture of Spirit Island in Canada's Jasper National Park. Botha followed her gaze, before meeting her eyes again. He really did have the most astounding irises.

"How long have you been coming here?"

"Ever since I was recruited. So, thirty two years."

"Have they always had this...set up?"

"In the lounge, yeah. Not in the toilets. Have you seen those?"

"I have."

"That was only two years ago."

"You're lucky. My toilet's just standard. Bog standard, you might say."

'Bog standard' was a term taught to her by a school friend whose parents hailed from England. It conveyed a notion of something average or mediocre. She hoped no-one at the CCB would haul her up over it.

He tittered, evidently aware of the term, which impressed her. "But swanky bog standard though, right?"

"Oh, definitely. It's like an upmarket hotel suite. And you could fit a family of twenty giants in there."

Her wrist comm beeped, and she excused herself to look.

The color must have drained from her face, because her new acquaintance asked in an overly concerned tone if she was all right.

_Fuck._

This couldn't be happening. Shouldn't, rather. But Yasmin, it seemed, had been correct. And by omission Bryant had been lying about Botha's team today, the devious little so and so.

"ARRIVAL: Agent C. M. Kruger" read the text.

"I'm fine," she lied, despite knowing she had already given herself away. She was a big girl now, a professional, and the least she could do was try to behave like one. If you fell down, you just got right back up again. Then you put your best foot forward, and if you couldn't recover then you damn well pretended to. If you could learn how to fake it and convince others, you might just end up convincing yourself, and that was better than nothing. And whilst Botha wouldn't have been convinced, he was at least considerate enough to play along. "But I think one of your team's here."

The comm beeped again: "ARRIVAL: Agent R. B. Drake."

_Ohhh fuck._

"Oh?"

"Two. Kruger, and Dra-"

Another beep: "ARRIVAL: Agent C. T. Crowe."

Yep. Of course he would be bringing his buddies. There was no possible way the universe was going to take pity on her now.

"Kruger, Drake and Crowe."

"Brilliant," he said, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

Another beep: "ARRIVAL: Agent P. D. Swanepoel."

"And Swanepoel."

Botha sighed.

If Botha didn't like these guys, it looked even worse for her.

"ARRIVAL: Agent E. L. Khumalo."

"Khumalo too."

"Even better." The sarcasm was clear as day now.

"ARRIVAL: Agent J. W. Mahlangu."

"How about Mahlangu?"

Another sigh. "That'll be my team. They never turn up this early. I guess the new girl's popular."

Talar was struck by his honesty. From her brief sojourn in his company, she got the distinct impression that this man was indeed the amenable person his superiors reputed him to be. What was more, he seemed without artifice, except when it was of some benefit to himself or others. His responses were no throwaway remarks; they seemed horribly like a warning. His momentary eyebrow raise added further weight to this. He was telling her it was her cue to make her excuses and return to work.

So why was she rooted to the spot all of a sudden? Why did the pragmatism and sensibility that had seen her through life thus far suddenly decide to desert her? Was it morbid curiosity? Misplaced pride? A gnawing, perhaps self-destructive need to step the farthest outside her comfort zone she had ever ventured? Did she want, at the very least, to show herself up as an indecisive little doe, incapable of acting for herself; or, equally as bad, a reckless fool, a law-unto-herself idiot, in front of an attractive man who was simply trying to help her? Either way, she wasn't exactly establishing herself as the Bureau's most capable or professional representative right now...and that wasn't the Talar Sampson she knew. She wondered if her old self had perhaps been left behind on Elysium.

A brief look of expectation shone in Botha's clear eyes - "come on," he was saying, imploring her, "go!" - but then it disappeared. Maybe he understood her predicament - or at least, was gracious enough not to judge her for it – and was simply trying not to patronize her? Or maybe he had already written her off as the foolish, incompetent little damsel that she was appearing to be, and had given up? There was also the possibility, albeit remote, that he'd suddenly found faith in her ability to handle what was coming her way. Perhaps his new superior had a courage and a strength that neither of them could have imagined?

Unlikely.

To be fair, though, she still had four minutes. She may very well find the drive to move by then. Perhaps she was merely a little stunned right now, like the saying about a deer in the-

Bad choice of allusion. What usually happened to deer in the headlights?

No, that was rabbits. Deer were smarter than rabbits, and big enough for Earth car drivers to worry about damaging their vehicle for them to plough right through...

What? She was arguing with herself over the realities of a God damn idiom now? Because whilst she was stood there wasting precious time, those minutes were ticking down. That oncoming vehicle cared not whether she was a deer, a rabbit, a human, or a being from the next galaxy; it was not going to stop, regardless.

Making sure to keep her tone neutral, she addressed Botha, "Have you ever been to any of the places in the photos?"

What was she doing, for crying out loud?

Botha looked at the screen to his right – a luminous daytime shot of pale beige sand dunes and a rippling teal lagoon in Brazil's Lençóis Maranhenses National Park – and then replied "Quite a few, ja. Perks of the profession."

She near expected him to shoot her a 'are you fucking insane?!' look, but he didn't. It was obvious that, save forcibly escorting her back to her office, he knew he'd done all he could. God, she felt horrendously ungrateful; he had tried to help her, and she'd as good as told him his advice was about as useful as a bicycle for a fish.

"I hope I do, one day," she said wistfully.

_Why are you not moving?!_

"You have weekends off, don't you?"

"I do."

"Then-" he made an explanatory gesture.

_Perhaps you could show me some of them, personally?_

She nodded. "Nothing stopping me."

_Come on, ask me if I'd like some company. Please?_

He didn't; although the hint of a smile, the faint but possibly suggestive twinkle in his eyes, offered her a glimmer of hope. So maybe he _was_ interested?

_Stop it._ If merely fraternizing with assets was implicitly discouraged, anything further, even with decent ones such as Botha, might not be grounds for dismissal but it may very well earn her a caution. That was, if they didn't go about it discreetly, outside of working hours. Provided she did her job, and he did his, where was the harm? Besides, out there all alone in that isolated house – house droids weren't exactly the most skilled conversationalists – wasn't it natural that she would seek some physical, human company? There was no stipulation in her contract, even in the fine print, that she avoid relationships with assets under any circumstance, so...

Three minutes now. Ample time.

"I take it you've visited the torus?" she continued. Yasmin had told her that, except for Gen 1s, assets weren't granted citizenship purely by virtue of working for the Bureau. If you didn't have the money, you couldn't get in, period. Talar doubted that, as a Gen 5, even with his generous wage Botha likely still fell short financially. However, as an asset, he at least had the privilege of being allowed to visit whenever he chose.

"Plenty of times. I'd like to buy a house up there eventually. One of those Mediterranean-looking ones. I know they just finished building a few of those, and I really wanted to get a deposit down on one of them, after all these years, but I didn't quite have enough. Next year, maybe."

"Property up there's expensive even for the best of us, even the smallest houses. If it's any consolation, I'm still living at my parents'. I can't even afford a deposit yet."

Even for established citizens, the authorities were extremely tight with mortgages. Talar had always found it a false economy - if they just relaxed the terms and conditions a little they could be making money on the scores of unoccupied properties dotting the habitat, rather than have their splendor wasted on house droids. She had even heard that, albeit very infrequently, illegal shuttles would land near to the empty properties so that Earthlings with false identifications could break in and use the medbays. Where and how the transporters gathered their intelligence, however, was a mystery. Perhaps they had simply struck lucky...or they knew someone on the inside? Although rarer, Talar knew she couldn't be the only Earthling sympathizer on the habitat. For the majority of Elysians, though, the plight of Earth's poorer inhabitants was simply a case of out of sight, out of mind.

"Slat my dood met n pap snoek, man!"

"Excuse me?"

He chuckled. "That's Vannie Toun – Cape Flats - language. Means I'm surprised."

"Did I hear 'snook' in there? As in, the fish?"

"Ja. The fish."

"I'm not even going to ask for a literal translation."

He grinned. "It's not rude. I could have said worse."

"You could, and unless it involved snook I'd be none the wiser. I know absolutely zero...err..any South African language, I'm afraid."

"At least you know we have more than one. Everyone I've met thinks we just have Afrikaans."

"That's the main one though, isn't it? You'll have to excuse my ignorance here."

He waved his hand permissively. "S'fine. In the Cape Flats we speak a variant of Afrikaans, which we call kapie-taal; I haven't been back there for thirty years but according to the media nothing's changed. If you're going purely by statistics though, the main languages are Zulu and Xhosa, then I think Afrikaans, Sepedi, English... There are six more after that."

"What's that in relation to your team?" and she meant it out of sincere curiosity, rather than prompting him to remind her she really should be leaving now.

"Khumalo and Mahlangu are Xhosa. Swanepoel is an Afrikaner – we call them Boers. Kruger, Crowe and Drake are English- I mean, Anglophones. English is their first language."

"Kruger's English?"

"Ja. As many generations back as he can remember, so he says."

"Another schoolfriend of mine had South African parents. She had an Afrikaner name but the family were all Anglophones. She said something about wanting to appear more culturally progressive."

"That's right, for some people. There's always been discord between Afrikaans speakers and English ones, ever since the first settlements. It's a long and complicated story, but basically, several times over the course of history a minority of Afrikaners felt their ethnicity was holding them back, or they disagreed with Afrikaner politics, so for these reasons they adopted the English culture and language. Some changed their family names, but an equal number kept them and wore them as a badge of pride to show how far they'd come from their Afrikaner origins."

"Really?"

"Ja. I think, though, when Kruger says as far back as he can remember, he may be referring to something the history books call the Great Trek; and that might be the same for your friend, too. Long story short, during 1835-1845 there was a major disagreement between the Afrikaners and the British in the Cape Colony over race relations between blacks and whites. Most Afrikaners wanted blacks and whites to keep separate; British didn't. So around 15,000 Afrikaners left the Cape Colony, and many of the ones who didn't sided with the British; in your friend's words, it was more culturally progressive for blacks and whites to mix. She could be referring to Apartheid, though."

"I've heard about that. We covered it briefly at school."

"Mmm hmm. That was brought about by the Afrikaner government. Kinda ironic that I've got black ancestry and my first language is Afrikaans, and that English speakers use masses of Afrikaans slang and sing Afrikaans nursery rhymes to their kids; but that's South Africa for you. It's a strange place at times, even now."

"Does the passion gap tradition still exist?"

"Yep. Still going strong. There was an era when it nearly died out, back in the mid 21st century, but then a sporting hero revived it."

Ever since the mid 1900's, Talar had learned in History Studies, sport, music and the cult of celebrity, as opposed to religion, had been the opiate of the masses. It was still the case today. Sport played an even more important role in Earth life, with sporting heroes and Olympic gold medalists garnering sponsorship details lucrative enough to buy them properties on Elysium. Of all the entertainments, sport was the most emblematic of dedication, training, a steadfast desire to compete and win. And, unlike acting and music and the other tenets of the industry, it was the one area in which the underdog truly had a fighting chance.

"So, do you wear your dentures when you visit?" she said genially.

He chuckled. "They wouldn't let me in otherwise."

"Really?"

"Deadly serious. And if I removed them in public everyone would run away screaming."

They shared a small laugh.

"When I was having my medical assessment there, the first physician I saw looks at me and says-" he cleared his throat, sitting up straight and affecting the poise of a typically doctorly type, like that of her English schoolfriend's father, ""Good grief! Whatever happened to your teeth, young man?!"." His attempt at an upper class English accent wasn't perfect, but he had the mannerisms and affectation nailed.

She laughed. "That's a fantastic impression, actually."

He mirrored her.

That was when the entry door opened, and Talar realized with gut wrenching certainty that her time was up.

Unexpectedly, first into the room wasn't the hawkish evildoer of legend, but an imposingly tall, well built man clad in the same military fatigues as Botha's, who looked as if he'd just stepped off a rugby pitch. Strong jaw, blond buzz cut, blue eyes, slightly sunburned skin, and what Lang had told her were the standard facial implants.

"...But he mispelled it-" the man said ebulliently, in an accent as foreign as that of his enforced comrade. The music was unobtrusive enough for loud voices to be heard clearly. "He wrote 'maningful' relationship. I was like "Ja! Always knew he was that was inclined!" haha. _Freudian slips_ and in _vino veritas!_"

Talar gathered this had to be Swanepoel – the guy at #96 on the Dirtiest list.

"And now you're just showing off!" chimed another voice - a distinctly black African accent - belonging to the next guy through the door. Average height and build, rich brown skin, wide-set eyes and cheekbones, generous lips. Mahlangu. #93. "Freudian slips. In vino veritas."

And then... the man himself.

Talar's blood suddenly ran cold, and it was all she could do not to gulp.

"Hey, boet," he barked to Swanepoel jokily, his voice a coarse tenor and his accent rough as sandpaper, "stop it before it becomes contagious and someone actually learns something. I for one don't want my fucking ignorance undermined."

He was indubitably the man from the photos, except his hair and beard were longer, and he was sporting a tan. And there was something about his eyes; they seemed darker, although that could have simply been the light. His body, too, was far leaner than she had imagined. Both files had put his weight at 170lbs/77kgs, for which Talar would have anticipated someone bulkier; but even clothed, she could tell he was anything but.

"Hey, it's Botha!" he cheered, as the remaining three men – easily recognizable as Drake, Crowe, and finally Khumalo - filed in. Botha didn't react. "Guy's missing a tooth and the look just doesn't work. He's a perfect example of how the tooth really hurts."

The rest of the group guffawed. Looking indifferent, Botha merely shrugged, muttering to Talar "Don't worry. I'm used to it."

"And _hello_!" Kruger continued to his group, shooting a missile of a glance in Talar's direction – and she _felt_ it; it actually stung - "Is this our girl?"

Her cantering heart started to speed up, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck responded, standing to attention.

"She's come to greet us, Boss!" Drake cracked.

"What did I tell you, eh?" 'Boss' cackled. Dear God... both his accent and timbre of voice themselves were _horrendous_. "Five star hospitality, boys!"

He levelled his gaze at Talar as he approached – a stealthy, predatory focus, single-mindedly honing in on the kill... and it was only when Talar attempted to look away when she realized, with panic swelling in her gut, that she was paralyzed. There was a wild, savage animal behind those eyes; a caged one, its snarling barely repressed, but one with enough smarts to know it had to feign some degree of domesticity in order to survive. This 'domesticated' animal may not harm her, may not scratch, bite, or maul her, but she could sense beyond any doubt that, psychologically, he was going to give her hell. And there was an air about him that stated, with cool but unshakeable confidence, that he knew exactly what she was and what she felt, and that there was nothing she could do to hide it; and it chilled her right to the bone, made her feel utterly naked, exposed, and vulnerable. She _was_ that deer in the headlights, ready to be taken out either by the car in front of her...or the wolf waiting by the sideline – the one who had been tailing her all along. Either one was him - both, even – and either way, she was doomed.


	6. SPARFUNK & JOE SOLO - Rapture

**AN**

Hope no-one's too attached to Drake's mohawk 'do. Just saying ;)

Note: 'poes', pronounced 'puss', is SA slang for...well...I'm sure you can guess.

* * *

**CHAPTER 6**

Kruger at the helm, his lupine glare never straying from Talar's, the group bridged the distance in seconds, by which time Talar was sure they could not only taste her fear but hear her heart galloping. It was hammering so furiously she was surprised the stupid organ wasn't smashing through her chest cavity, spraying blood and viscera all over the pristine surfaces. If he would only look away, it wouldn't be so bad; but those eyes, as dark as the floor beneath her, wouldn't budge. And close up, it was even worse.

Nothing could have prepared her for this, for how it felt to be so uncomfortably near to someone who was a living legend at the Bureau and amongst his colleagues for mostly all the wrong reasons. But it was those eyes that truly terrified her. From a distance his irises seemed dark, but face to face up close it became clear that the darkness was in fact extreme pupil dilation, to the extent that not even the barest coronal sliver remained. Whether it was an effect of the medication, or he was amped up about something, it looked frightening. No creature had _no_ irises, except sharks. But sharks' eyes were flat, dead; this man's were vivid and very much alive. Burning.

Instead of seating themselves around Botha, whose chair was third from the right, they pushed the seats aside and stood. Talar couldn't recall ever having locked gazes with anyone for this long, and certainly not with such intensity. She couldn't move, or blink, or think properly, and it was only when he finally diverted his gaze to Botha that she realized she had been holding her breath. But it wasn't any easier to start breathing again - the atmosphere in the room suddenly seemed stifling. Almost imperceptibly, she noticed Botha bristle.

"Nice meeting you, Ma'am," the Cape Colored said, standing up.

"You too, Agent Botha," Talar replied, feeling even more tense on the poor guy's account.

As Botha turned in the direction of the lounge, Kruger piped up, "Hey, Botha! Your tampon's showing, boet. Can you just...adjust your skirt a little, please? There are ladies present!"

He obviously didn't give a damn about making a good first impression.

Hearing his voice at an even closer proximity, for the first time Talar actually wished she were deaf. He sounded nicotine-laced and as uncouth, as dirty as he looked; and he looked like he'd been carried to the club in a dust devil. In fact, all bar Botha and Khumalo did.

Botha gave an audible laugh, starkly different than the ones of Kruger's group, then parried the older man with "And good morning to you too, Boss."

The group tittered.

"Likewise, Botha. Likewise," came Kruger's rejoinder. "And what a morning it is, boys!"

One flash, one bite, of a glance; and this one, too, stung, almost as if he had thrown sulphuric acid in her face.

Beer in hand, Botha strode to a central right area, where he sat down casually on a couch. Talar had to hand it to him for putting on a good front. Had he not bristled upon the group's arrival, there would have been nothing to betray his discomfort.

Pushing Botha's vacant seat aside, Kruger usurped the space, placing himself barely two feet from his prey. He scanned his group, then said, looking at them, "Come on, guys. The lady knows who we are; but she's been courteous enough to come out and greet us, might as well return the favor, eh?"

The group chuckled; Talar wondered if at her expense. They were already getting away with murder behaving like this around her; laughing in her face wouldn't have been too far a stretch.

Talar, too, swept her gaze skittishly back and forth over the sextet. Although she was looking elsewhere, she could feel those pure onyx eyes on her again; studying her, analyzing her, scrutinizing her. It was a crawling, claustrophobic sensation, even worse than when one of the drill sergeant teachers hovered over her, peering down their noses at the small student girl whose grades weren't allowed to fall below 75% lest they reflect negatively on the mighty Elysian teaching system. Incompetence wasn't permitted in Elysian schools, either from students or teachers. Yet, at that precise moment, she would have gladly substituted the entire Elysian educational authority for this onyx-eyed beast and his buddies.

"Swanepoel," said the imposing blond man on the far right, with surprising affability, offering his hand for Talar to shake.

Deceptive affability, Talar thought, as she immediately accepted. Her reactions must have been functioning on autopilot, because there would have been no conscious way of willing her body to move, let alone manage a semi-confident handshake.

"Khumalo," said the man beside him, with equal amicability. #95, and ex-leader of Pollsmoor prison's faction of the 28s Gang, she recalled. He stood virtually the same height as Swanepoel, with skin the same warm mahogany as that of his 28s Gang friend, Mahlangu – a skin tone darker than that of anyone Talar had ever met - but his build was slighter, his hair closer cropped, and his facial features a little less pronounced. Under any other circumstance she would have considered him attractive.

"Drake," said the third man, a scruffy looking rogue with a crewcut hairstyle and an impish smile, and whose accent, Talar had noted, was closest to Kruger's.

Kruger was next, although he gestured for the Nordic-featured, bald strongman to his right to go on.

Saving the best till last, obviously. Hah. Hah.

The thickset man introduced himself as Crowe, his voice a rumbling baritone, and his grip just that fraction less than crushing. He wasn't tall, but what he lacked in height he certainly boasted in strength.

"Like the rifles," Talar observed, her autopilot brain having assumed control of her voice, too.

"That's my grandson," he affirmed, in an accent smoother than Kruger and Drake's but definitely from the same area.

"Keeping it in the family," Autopilot Talar quipped coolly, Manual Talar only questioning, as an afterthought, whether it was even wise to try and counter these intimidating men with humor. Too late now.

"Hey, hey," Kruger mock warned, wagging a grime-stained finger in her direction, "less of the informality, please. The CCB have a reputation to uphold."

Oh, if only he had seen what she had seen yesterday.

His gaze took on a momentary lightness, and Talar wished she could pause him there indefinitely, in that wonderful safety zone, that place where she didn't get the feeling he was claws out and ready to pounce. She wondered if he was aware of the cameras and was playing up for them, exercising the Bureau's quota of leniency granted to him for being an invaluable asset. She couldn't imagine such blasphemous talk was generally otherwise permitted; even with bureaucracy-hating Yasmin as head of CCTV, she and her team had a duty to report any dissenting chatter.

"They'll survive," replied Autopilot Talar. Manual Talar felt impressed.

Crowe looked only mildly amused, fortunately without any _overt_ hostility, but there was nevertheless a decidedly frosty surface to him. Talar surveyed him for a beat. The inventor of the Droids' Best Friend, as the Cousar Crowe rifles were called, was this man's grandson, which was both startling and oddly impressive. On Elysium, age was somewhat of a moot point. The majority of people chose to suspend their aging in their mid 20's to early 40's, and it wasn't uncommon to have three generations of the same family all within that age bracket. According to Yasmin, the founders had mostly maintained themselves at the age they had been when medbays hit markets for the super wealthy in 2050; fifteen years before first stepping foot on the torus. However, the fact that Kruger and his team were all born in the 1970's yet looked no older than their file photographs meant medbay technology must have been available as far back as 2007. Thus, it wasn't difficult to reconcile a man of Crowe's age with such seniority.

For some reason – because why she cared whether he was friendly or not was irrelevant - his standoffish demeanor nagged at her. Perhaps it was a 'calm before the storm thing' - the fear that he, like Kruger, was biding his time, waiting to pounce? She tried to remember something, anything, from his file to break the ice safely before someone else chose to shatter it beneath her feet.

_Guys like him love to talk shop. He's a pilot. Let me try that. _

"So," she addressed him, "you have a good flight?" Trite, and predictable, but better than waiting there to possibly be devoured.

The change in his demeanor was instant; to her overwhelming relief, he grinned, and the grin seemed genuine. Crowe, like his Gen 1 cohorts, was obviously no one to be trifled with, but at least he was human enough to smile with sincerity.

"I hardly have to fly anything manually anymore. All this automation, you know?" He shrugged as if apologizing, though Talar knew he wasn't the kind who apologized for anything. "Even manually, flying is second nature to me so I hardly notice." A pause, enough for Talar's awareness of Kruger's eyes, fixed on her, to re-assert itself. "You, though? You look a little woozy. Rough flight in?"

The innuendo, and the mock-playful tone in his voice, wasn't lost on her. "First time on Earth," she said shortly, realizing just then that she'd responded with one of her own.

"Oh, this just gets better!" Swanepoel murmured.

"Hey," Kruger cut in, "be nice, poes face. I don't wanna have to crack open any more cans of irony on your arse and chase them with shots of sarcasm."

"Look who read his first book yesterday!" Swanpoel chided jokily.

"No boet; your sister's got a grammar kink and she was crying out things to me last night."

Everyone, including Swanepoel, burst out laughing.

"Adjunct! Oh yes, baby! Adverbial clause! Yes, yes! Prepositional phrase! Baby, yes!"

His voice sounded even worse in the throws of mock passion, if that was even possible. Talar reckoned the only pleasing sound Kruger could produce was a mute one.

"Grammar me, baby!" Drake exclaimed.

"It's true, though. You don't just learn something new every day, but you learn it in the weirdest fucking places too. Anyway-" he shot a glance at the man furthest to his right – Mahlangu.

The Xhosa man introduced himself warmly, his expression and handshake completely incongruous with that of a hardened mercenary. But it relieved her; at least she didn't have to coax it out of him.

Finally came the time Talar had been dreading, and, returning her gaze to his, she braced herself for Kruger's introduction. He would have something planned, she was certain of it. Good thing her paralysis had lifted just enough for her to prepare for it, despite her heart picking up a desperate pace again.

Wearing an impeccably guileless expression, he held out his hand. Long, slim fingers, with calloused pads. Tar under the nails. Talar noticed the implants on his wrists, which she had somehow overlooked on his comrades, and accepted the handshake.

She had seen the man's rap sheet, knew he was devious and physically capable, but nothing could have prepared her for what he did next: he used the leverage of the handshake to yank her toward him – and dear God, he was strong, he was as hard and uncompromising as a droid - pull her right up close against him, and rasp in her ear, with no hint of his former joviality, "I've raped better women than you."

For that tiny elapse, it was literally as if time stood still, and she could take note of every intricate detail. The coarse texture of his beard affronting the soft skin of her cheek; the razor kiss of tobacco-saturated breath against her ear and filtering up her nostrils; the scent of dust and dirt and cigarette ash, mingling with fresh sweat, on his clothes; and the taste of bile rising in her own throat. Absurdly, she found herself able to ruminate, albeit only briefly, on how surprising it was that he didn't smell utterly repugnant; although, being a smoker herself, she had to admit more than a little bias.

Only then, as her subconscious mind finished processing his words and her conscious mind took over, did the reality of what he had just uttered hit her smack bang in the face... with all the subtlety of an iron baseball bat.

He had raped people. Not only had he raped people, but he had enjoyed it, and he was proud of it. And the reality of hearing this first hand was infinitely more jarring than any dry text in a file.

He relinquished his grip, iris-less eyes tracking her with a cool keenness as she pulled back, shaken and rendered momentarily ineffectual. As he locked her in with that merciless gaze, somehow, by way of what could only be a miracle, she found her brain working. Not just working, but pedaling, wheeling furiously, wondering whether to say nothing or attempt a withering retort. Yes, he was goading her, and yes, he was trying to intimidate her, but was he expecting a rise out of her? Her sensibility ordered her to just leave it, to not give this inhuman bastard the satisfaction. Yet, her ire, her profound shock, screamed otherwise. And she had to do it quickly, because getting in a competent retort was very much a time limited matter.

She grabbed her courage with both hands, forced all her shock and trepidation down, down as far as it could go, and with a composure she didn't know she possessed, retorted coolly, "Well, needs must, eh? I don't see them flocking to you otherwise."

"Woah-ho-hooo!" exclaimed Crowe, the other members joining in with whoops and cheers.

She anticipated the backlash from her opponent, but, bizarrely, all Kruger did was take a moment to consider her response, then snicker and parry her: "That's not what your mother said."

"Oh, really?" she clipped back immediately, baffled as to how she was managing it. "It's the 22nd century and you're still resorting to 'your mama' jokes?"

"Not resorting," he said matter-of-factly. "Just the most appropriate response in the given situation."

Contrary to her presumptions, he remained entirely unperturbed by her comeback. Where she had expected fury and wrath, at the gall of a mere female daring to challenge him, she was met with only a vague sense of amusement. She hadn't even grazed his ego, let alone dented it.

All that effort, for nothing. Well, at least she had survived.

"Well, it's very nice to make your acquaintance, Agent Kruger," she deadpanned, offering a practiced, perfunctory CCB smile. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing that she was still reeling from his declaration; or at the very least, of seeing it overtly. Most likely a man like him would be fully cognizant of human psychology, of how blindsiding someone in such a way left a lasting effect. Most likely smell it on her, too. Therefore, the best she could do was maintain a staged recovery, and then maybe, just maybe, he might get the idea that she wasn't going to let him snap her backbone. She might even succeed in convincing herself, too.

_Hah. Good luck, my friend!_.

The group continued sniggering, like a group of chattering hyenas.

"My pleasure, Ma'am," he responded in a darkly cordial manner.

Then, the most bizarre thing happened. Where it came from she couldn't fathom – perhaps being in the presence of so much testosterone was affecting her hormones, as was being the target of this wolfish, clearly very sexual man's attention - but suddenly, she felt another feeling begin to stir. Before she knew it, she was realizing, with abject horror, just what the feeling was: fear – of course fear – but mixed with a throbbing, primal _desire_. Sheer animal attraction, terrible and wrong, but simply too pungent to ignore, deny or fight. For a split second's entirety it was all she could do not to leap over the counter and claw his fatigues off, filthy and sweaty or not.

Nicotine – that was it. It was because he reeked of tobacco. Yes, that _had_ to be it. She had gone four hours without a cigarette, and this human nicotine factory had sparked up her addiction, pure and simple. If she wanted to kiss him, lick him, breathe him in, it was to taste and inhale the residual scent of tobacco that her tastebuds and olfactory receptors were craving. And if she wanted to fuck him... or rather, for him to fuck her? Haul her up against a wall or bend her over a table and brutally have his way with her, in front of everyone, like the animal that he was?

Yeah, that was nicotine addiction, too. Right. Why then was there a sudden rush of sticky warmth between her legs?

Fortunately she snapped out of it pretty much immediately, but was left even more shaken than moments before. Now she could add disgust to the heady mixture of emotions coursing throughout her body; disgust and revulsion with herself. Unlike Botha, there was nothing even remotely attractive about this man; and even if there had been, it would have been merely physical, and nothing the sheer depravity of his behavior wouldn't mitigate. Hell, that nails-on-a-chalkboard voice was bad enough on its own. But ultimately, he was a devil, a demon, a God damn rapist... and she had wanted- She couldn't even allow herself to process it. Either it was the nicotine addiction and the abundant presence of testosterone, both of which functioned at that reptilian-brain level where decency and morality had no relevance, or it was a fluke.

She realized she had been staring at his eyes when he said with a smirk, "Mydriasis."

"Hmm?" she replied, a little dazed. Shit, shit, shit, he was winning and he knew it.

He pointed to his right eye. "Blown pupils. Haven't seen my real eye color for decades. It's the meds. And no, it doesn't affect my vision. They make some stellar contact lenses nowadays."

She got the impression the "nowadays" was significant. He was far, far older than she may ever be; he'd traveled the world and experienced things she couldn't even imagine. Yet here she was, a 28 year old with comparatively no life experience, above him in the bureaucratic pecking order. He wouldn't let her forget that.

"That's nice," she said, lacing her tone and expression with as much casual disinterest as she could muster. She refused to let him know he had riled her.

He tutted, shaking his head. "_That's nice_. Listen to that, boys. I share a private matter with this lady and all she can say is "that's nice."."

"I'd call it trying to draw attention to yourself."

"No baby, I'm just being friendly, indulging your curiosity. I don't _try_ to draw attention to myself."

The trace of a knowing smile tugged at the corners of his thin lips, his eyes sparkling with a dark glee. The bastard knew he had her. He'd felt her terror and then he'd fucking well felt her desire, too. She wished she could deny it, but knew in her heart that it was impossible.

"Well, thank you for being friendly on my account, Agent Kruger."

The hyena pack were still cackling and exchanging quips, but Talar had zoned them out. They didn;t constitute any immediate threat to her, unlike Kruger; in whose case she was suddenly stumped for how else to respond. He was the smartass type, the person who always spoke back and had an answer for everything. Every possible rejoinder she could fathom would only be met with a better rebuttal of his own. For the time being, she would have to admit defeat. Luckily, she had a legitimate excuse.

"Now, I'm sorry to have to cut this short, but we've done the meet and greet, so I should get back to work."

His expression changed to one of complete neutrality, as if none of the events within the last few minutes had just occurred. "Of course, Ma'am."

She acknowledged the rest of the group, whose clamor was quelling, with a curt nod, and then turned to leave, deliberately not gratifying Kruger's ego with a second glance.

The men's conversation started back up the moment her back was turned, but she deliberately tried not to follow it. From the corridor she could still hear them, their raucous banter filtering through the walls like some sort of selective, heat-seeking chemical gas. Agent Kruger was conducting a cacophony of an orchestra out there, and Talar bet damn well half of it was purely to piss her off.

The photo that greeted her when she arrived back in her office was a dazzling evening shot, looking from the ground up at the tapered, resplendent golden spire of Myanmar's Shwedagon Pagoda in Rangoon.

As Henry vacated the space, Talar retrieved her lighter and packet of cigarettes, swiftly lighting one up. Oh, the luxury of being able to smoke inside, of not having to trek what felt like miles in exquisitely sculpted but woefully impractical shoes. Even the lowly admin employees had to show drive and dedication; any luxuries such as cigarette or caffeine breaks were tainted with time limits hanging heavy above your head. If you couldn't smoke your cigarette or down your rocket fuel in record time, you would have to sprint back to the office. Despite being short, Talar was never one for stiletto heels if she could help it. If it weren't for the Bureau's stipulation that she wear them, she would have gladly gone around in ballet flats. Would Yasmin be forced to report her if she kicked off her nude, Jimmy Choo Anouk pumps? She decided against it for now.

God, that rush of tobacco and nicotine felt so good. It _tasted_ so good.

An image of Kruger's harsh features, his leering expression, flashed into her mind.

She cursed audibly, yanking the cigarette from her lips and promptly stubbing it out in the transparent ash tray at the side of the desk. She needed the hit, but not that man in her head. He'd done enough damage already. Maybe this was her cue to quit?

_Smoke me!_ the rest of the cigarettes cried telepathically, like a pestering child. _Smoke me! Come on! You'll get cranky if you don't!_

Talar actually caught herself glaring at the offending packet, whilst wrangling with her thoughts, conflicted. Finally, her addiction won out. After all, she didn't want to those pangs of craving to disrupt her work. Kruger was already here, so any other unpleasantries that could be prevented were worth her while taking measures against. She re-lit the barely touched cigarette, inhaling and exhaling deeply, feeling and tasting the smoke as it filtered down her throat and out through her nostrils. It smelt like him.

"Fuck you, Agent Kruger," she said defiantly. "You don't own my life."


	7. SCUBA – So You Think You're Special

**AN**

Whilst this doesn't bare any direct significance to the plot, I just wanted to explain something that may have had people wondering. You may have noticed how, according to the alerts, agents are referred to by their first and second given initials and then their surname. Maybe you were thinking, what if they had no middle name, or conversely, had several? Indeed, middle names do not exist in certain countries; although the agents featured thus far all originate from cultures where they do, and, especially in the case of black Africans, where more than one middle name is fairly common. In this instance, their names would be subject to shortening by general computer databases, the vast majority of which only allow for one middle name. Hope that clears this up.

* * *

**CHAPTER 7**

Come 15:07, Kruger's team, including Botha, had left; as had the others, to be replaced by ten more from intelligence. Save for making two cups of coffee, Talar had worked solidly since finishing that blessedly pacifying cigarette - however reminiscent of Kruger it was, ultimately it helped calm her nerves. She could have had Henry make the coffee, as he was programmed for kitchen duties too, but she enjoyed the trips to the kitchen, with its milky-colored, glassy surfaces and panelled, underlit floor. It hadn't occurred to her just how badly her bladder was protesting, or how her stomach was grumbling, until an alert flashed up, notifying her of Agent O. L. Ramanauskas' arrival. She would tend to her bladder, placate her stomach with an apple for the time being, then go and greet the Lithuanian whiz kid before taking her proper lunch break.

Five minutes later she was standing behind the bar, and in walked a diminutive, pallid young man, in what was arguably the worst ensemble of clashing patterns known to man: a plaid blazer, Hawaiian shirt with polka dot tie, and horizontally-striped drainpipe trousers. Either he had gotten dressed in the dark or he was trying to make a fashion statement. This – this – was the person who had brought down the security system of the New World Government? A look of surprise at her presence barely had time to register, before the trio of agents in the left hand corner gave a boisterous cheer, rising to accost the kid mid step. He seemed pleased to see them, although, in their case, it was unclear whether their amusement was with him or at his expense and he – and she, too - simply wasn't picking up on the nuance. After patting him heartily on the back, they returned to their seats, letting him complete the distance to the bar. His steps seemed tentative, almost as if he was unsteady on his feet.

"Agent Ramanauskus," Talar said with a smile, holding out her hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Yours too, Ms. Sampson, Ma'am," replied the teenager, deferentially, in a strong eastern European accent; one that Talar in her relative ignorance would have been hard pressed to distinguish from any other from that part of the world. He accepted the handshake limply, eyes improperly focused on her. He seemed shy, if not socially awkward; a more extreme version of Talar herself. She took a moment to deliberate whether making light of his attire would be appropriate, or if he would even get it. She gave him the benefit of the doubt, praying she wouldn't regret it.

"Interesting outfit," she remarked, smiling warmly and praying he wouldn't take offense. It struck her that she was behaving with far less circumspection than usual today, as if the parts of her composure had gotten dislodged and couldn't quite fit back together. She shoved the thought to the back of her mind.

To her relief, the kid chuckled, his awkwardness loosening notably. "I lost a game with those agents who greeted me. The forfeit was to wear this for the entire day. I'm going to mainline vodka to console myself." Although he still appeared a little awkward – his posture seemed oddly rigid, like a spooked cat, and he still wasn't properly looking her in the eye - he was obviously aware enough to gage when formality could be partially dropped.

She stopped at advising him not to get into any other games with the aforementioned agents, or even drinking at all – his file put his age at 19 - saying instead, "Only vodka?"

"Reminds me of home." His face took on a humorous expression as he continued, "Only alcohol we drink in Lithuania, in addition to beer. If it's not made from grains or potatoes, we don't go near it. It's like poison."

"Well, good thing we've only got about-" Talar turned around, throwing a cursory glance at the crammed rows, of which half were spirits, "-I guess at least... ten different types of vodka here."

"You have fifteen," he corrected her, wryly. "More than my life's worth to forget it."

Talar nodded. "You work in intelligence, after all."

The teenager laughed. "Oh no. I meant it as an eastern European. Anyone from eastern Europe, we have to know our vodka, otherwise we are not worthy. It's a national sport for us."

Talar couldn't decipher whether he was being serious or not. She wasn't particularly clued up on worldly drinking cultures. Other than the devoutly religious and the fastidiously health obsessed, everyone enjoyed a drink, didn't they?

Ramanauskas addressed the droid, ordering a shot of Stumbro Starka – a honey-colored liquid which Talar had mistook for whisky – another of Chopin vodka, an Ozone vodka and lime, and a Luksusowa vodka and Coca Cola. Money never needed to exchange hands here, Chisholm had told her, the droids logging the transactions and submitting them via their internal comms to the finance department of HQ, who then debited them from the agents' accounts.

"All the cheap stuff," he said drolly.

"Depends what you call cheap."

"Under $100. When I first started coming here, when they first contracted me, they only had super premium vodkas. Exorbitantly priced stuff – upwards of $1000. But then I noticed, they have this cheap lager – Castle lager – that the South Africans love-"

Internally, Talar winced, the memory of Kruger's coarse beard brushing against her cheek, and that cold, grating voice rasping in her ear, as he clinched her with what was probably no more than a mere iota of his true strength. She swallowed, tasting tobacco, and for a fleeting moment she could have sworn the air reeked of it, too.

_Think of Botha,_ she commanded herself. _Think of Botha. Think of Botha. Must think of Botha._

"-so I suggested they stock some of my favorites, too. And they've had them ever since."

"This place is excellently stocked, but I wasn't aware they took suggestions."

"After my first visit they sent me a form asking for my feedback."

"Ah, I see." Talar cracked a smile. Any excuse for the Bureau to bring forms into the equation. Any. Sometimes it even benefited people.

Ramanauskas smiled back, making adequate eye contact with her for the first time.

"Well, enjoy your visit, Agent Ramanauskas-"

"Call me Osvaldas," the kid interjected enthusiastically.

Talar was taken aback by his sudden boldness, but told herself not to get hung up on it. The guy was hardly a chick magnet – that was, to women who didn't want to mother him, or didn't harbor some perverse kink for gawky teenage boys. Add to this that most of his dealings with CCB staffers were no doubt stiflingly formal, and he was probably just eager to make the best out of any interaction with a female superior who seemed human. However, being socially maladjusted, he had likely found himself lost for words and so just blurted out, out of turn, the first thing that came to mind. Knowing that feeling only too well, Talar could sympathize with him - understanding and navigating the complex world of social norms and protocols had never come easy to her, either.

"OK, Osvaldas," she replied cordially. "I would say "call me Talar", but as your superior I'm not allowed to have you address _me_ on a first name basis."

"Understood, Ma'am," the teenager said.

"But you can dispense with the 'Ma'am', OK?"

He gave an animated, single nod.

"Well, nice to have met you, Osvaldas-" she watched the agent's childlike face light up, "-but I must get back to work. Enjoy your day."

"You too!" he called after her.

* * *

Coconut and spiced vanilla, everywhere. Smooth, sweet, and intoxicating.

Talar was a shower person. She rarely found the time to take baths; but when she did, they were the type that involved copious amounts of bubbles, exotic scents, and which normally ended in masturbation. She had lost her masturbatory virginity in the bath, and it had stuck with her ever since. This one was no different, except that the tub was a jacuzzi big enough for two people instead of four, and the bubbles were constantly shifting. Fortunately, being an air jet tub rather than a water jet one, it permitted the use of scented oils and bubble bath; the distinction of which she had come to be hyper vigilant of since ruining her parents' hot tub once.

With thoughts of Agent A. T. Botha occupying her mind, her hands moved steadily, three fingers rubbing circles over her swollen little nub, whilst the other worked two fingers in and out of her well lubricated pussy. It had been a long day, with fewer cigarettes than usual, and she needed some relief. Having not had sex in four months since splitting from Sudir, she needed a proper shag, too, and Goddamn if Botha hadn't sent her into heat. But he wasn't here; just mental projections of him, wishes that she couldn't even dream of taking the first steps to fulfil yet.

Round and round one hand went; the other, dipping so sweetly, lingeringly, in and out. Her body hummed inside, slowly coiling, tightening. Her nipples stood erect, despite the warm water, her small breasts becoming ever so slightly more pronounced with arousal from her earlier attention given to them. Oh, that sensation in her clit, and inside her, felt so good. For the little that it was, it felt damn amazing. Fuck...Botha. Missing teeth or not, he was just so impeccably stunning. That slim, streamlined build... that smile... those surreal, turquoise eyes... that gentle laugh... that smooth, unblemished skin the color of warm caramel. And that quiet, understated confidence, too. He may have seemed humble on the outside, but she would bet good money he'd be a completely different animal behind closed doors.

Yasmin would wax lyrical to her about the wonders of sex toys, and owned a vast array of them, but Talar was far more reserved in her use of such contraptions. Whilst they had their benefits - unlike real sex they guaranteed an orgasm, or even several - she had never managed to completely adjust to the feel of being pleasured by something so obviously mechanical. An orgasm was an orgasm, Yasmin said, whether by a man's body part or otherwise; but Talar disagreed. She wanted something that felt like the real thing, like a man fucking her or licking her, fingering her or touching her, or nothing. Yet, devices that replicated the exact feel and function of penises, tongues, lips and fingers mostly only disturbed her for resembling severed body parts or isolated specimens grown in a lab. She was used to all manner of robots performing menial and vital tasks, but ones with such an intimate function seemed somehow a step too far, for her at least.

Thus, she owned no sex toys. Perhaps she was missing out, she wondered, or perhaps not. The most obvious con was the inability to bring herself to vaginal - that was, g-spot - orgasm; something she had managed to achieve through sex, and via her last boyfriend's skilled finger work, but that she found impossible to reproduce using her own fingers. Two years ago Yasmin had gifted her a g-spot vibrator, hoping to win her friend over to the dark side; Talar had used it only once, the thought of its impersonal, synthetic flesh over plastic too off-putting. Perhaps she was an anachronism who would have been better off in the 1950's, before mechanical self love had come into vogue and never gone out of it.

The pleasure intensified as she switched to massaging her clit with one finger; long, agonizingly slow vertical strokes up and down, right to the perimeter of her pelvis and then down to the upper partition of her vulva. The heat inside her, too, ratcheted up a notch as the spring wound itself tighter. Even without the bath water, she would have been soaked. A natural blush spread across her cheeks. The pitter-patter of her heart was steadily becoming a heavier, more brazen thudding.

She had pictured herself undressing Botha; drinking in his lean, runner's build, impressively adorned with skele-steel exografts; running the flat of her palms over his washboard stomach, and letting her fingers trace and probe those captivating implants as he worked on undressing her. She had envisioned the two of them naked on her bed; his lush, full lips massaging hers, their tongues stroking one another's as her fingers trailed delicately up and down his cock until he reached a thick, full erection. She had imagined his slender, piano-player's fingers probing inside her, stimulating her internal sweet spot. And now she was up to imagining herself rubbing her thumb over the head of his dick, back and forth, then circling the rim, teasing him, making him moan with her as his fingers continued to stoke a burgeoning fire within her. She encircled the tip of his cock with her full palm, then gave a moderate squeeze, excruciatingly slowly moving her hand upwards until it had left the organ completely. He gasped.

Oh, how she wished it was his caramel-colored fingers on her throbbing clit right now, dipping inside of her with beautiful, rhythmic precision, his kisses on her neck and shoulders, instead of those of the air bubbles.

She envisioned herself wrapping her hand around his delicious erection, completely enveloping the head, and then increasing and decreasing the pressure in a series of rhythmic contractions, like an undulating current. In her mind's eye, she saw his eyelids flutter closed, heard his honeyed moan. She was going to show this man utter bliss.

Until meeting Sudir last year, Talar had never considered herself particularly skilled at anything sexual; no-one bar him had inspired that fervent, rousing need to try anything beyond the average, and it wasn't something she'd sought to change. Why, she didn't exactly know. Although far from prudish, she could never seem to muster the enthusiasm to become the sex kitten that men fantasized about. Perhaps it was a reaction to the lacklustre skill of those previous boyfriends, the fact that they themselves seemed to care so little for the intricacies of female desire? Or maybe she had simply been a late bloomer in that respect?

But Sudir, that beautiful Hindu architect, had taught her a trick or two. He had been the one to open up an entirely new world to her, to teach her things she could never have imagined, and to inspire her to take the initiative and learn, try, explore. He had taught her to embrace herself. Too bad, she thought with more than a modicum of unfair, guilty selfishness, she had been the one to finally convince him to embrace _him_self. She and Sudir remained good friends, although Talar was perpetually green with envy in the presence of his boyfriend. At least he'd left her with a very useful legacy.

Up another notch now, steadily climbing. She felt her vaginal muscles tense and flex in accord with her ministrations. Her calves, too, gave an involuntary clench; and then her toes, scrunching themselves up to an almost painfully tight point. The porcelain feel of the squeaky-clean acrylic itself seemed heavenly, reminding her of that first time, fifteen years prior, when she had found herself arching and writhing against the hard material as a strange and beautiful sensation had overwhelmed her.

The whole of her right hand was now slipping and sliding against her clit, right from the tips of her fingers to the heel of her palm, and her left now moved faster, jerkier, losing precision as the feeling continued to soar.

Her climax imminent, she knew she wouldn't have time to imagine doing everything she wanted to Botha. So, she went for the kill; her hand, slicked up with a mixture of her own saliva or juices and his pre-cum, now a dexterous cadence up and down that column of lusciously hard flesh, polishing him towards ejaculation... whilst her other hand delicately fondled his balls, feeling their tightness, their contracted state as his body prepared itself to crest.

Yes, yes, yes.. closer, closer still... fuck...

The Cape Colored drew closer to her, pressing his lips against the shell of her ear and then whispering-

"I've raped women better than you."

It wasn't Botha's voice. Neither was it is his form, or his scent. Tobacco and dust were everywhere, and it was heavy and thick and cloying and altogether terrifying and-

_Holy fuck- no... no..._

But she couldn't stop - the avalanche had already begun and now she was climaxing, a lava hot spike of ecstasy rising sharply in her core and racing with lightning speed outward, making her extremities its exit wounds. She gasped, a chilling, strangulated sound as her body jolted painfully against the menace of a man who held her captive. And was he climaxing, too? She didn't know. Didn't want to know.

The sensation subsided sharply, and she sank back against the tub, breathless and rattled.

She had just orgasmed to Agent C. M. Kruger.

The unbelievable bastard. Just how, in the name of all that was unholy, had he done it? How had he crept into her head and blindsided her like that? It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. It was sheer lunacy.

She lay there, thoroughly disgusted with him, and even more so with herself. She couldn't tell anyone about this, not even Yasmin; and next time Kruger and his cronies visited her workplace, she certainly wouldn't go out to greet them, Botha or not. Because Kruger would know. He would sense something, she was sure of it. Even if her guilt and shame didn't flare up perceptibly in his wake, he would no doubt have some uncanny way of reading her.

Her voice of reason woke up: she had to get it together, it said. Sit up, take a deep breath, and approach this little incident calmly and rationally. Kruger being in her head was nothing more than the result of a stressful encounter; it did not necessarily reflect any true desire for the man. That transient surge of lust she had experienced, together with what had just happened, was simply her body's most primitive survival instinct kicking in – a much more twisted, but ultimately necessary, form of Stockholm Syndrome. The body and mind wanted to protect itself from pain and trauma; and so, when faced with someone who posed a very genuine threat, in some or many extreme cases it turned that fear and panic to lust and want. It was its own way of making friends with the monster under the bed.

But then... would that same monster be sleeping under her bed tonight now? Would he get comfy there?

_Leave it alone,_ her reason urged; and it was right. For the sake of her sanity, she couldn't allow herself to dwell any more on this. It was utterly pointless picking at a solved mystery, a closed case. Besides, wouldn't that be what Kruger wanted – to have his toxic 'seed' take root in her head and grow into something ruinous? She had to prove to herself that she was better than him, stronger than what he'd given her credit for; but ultimately, she had to not let herself get drawn into his sordid little game.

She closed her eyes, listening to the gentle, lilting permutations of the water surrounding her, and once again inhaling coconut and spiced vanilla.

_Deep breath, that's it._

Nevertheless, she would be sleeping with light on.


	8. SEPPUKU PARADIGM – Eden

**CHAPTER 8**

"Wow," said Yasmin in her latest email exchange with her Earth-stationed friend, after viewing the photos Talar had attached of her new home, "you really are alone out there, aren't you! Any spider emergencies yet?"

0130 hours. Having woken an hour earlier and been unable to get back to sleep, Talar had gone outside to see if the fresh air helped to soothe her. Now, standing twenty feet from the front door of her abode, beneath the canopy of indigo night sky and glimmering stars, she couldn't have felt more isolated. Literally nothing else, no inorganic light or man-made beacon, shone out here; even the torus, radiant in the midst of that darkness, seemed closer. If not for the CCTV system and the droids, she could die out here and not be discovered for years. But just the very fact of being this remote, safe or not, was an immense and intimidating one, thrilling and frightening simultaneously; and entirely humbling, too. Just one tiny and insignificant mortal, dependent on technology and artificiality, in the middle of a gigantic and timeless, self-sustaining organic terrain. Yet, while she knew she might change her mind later, right now it was precisely where she wanted to be.

The air carried a surprising chill, and she'd needed to don a sweater and a jacket in order to withstand it; poor cosseted fool that she was, accustomed only to the balmy weather of those permanently clear Elysian skies. In his brief scientific rundown, Lang had explained how it was a lack of moisture that caused temperature extremes in the desert – absence of water vapor to absorb and reflect solar heat during the day and prevent thermal radiation to space during the night. Seasons, weather fluctuations and radical temperature changes, however, didn't really exist on the habitat - everything there was manipulated to the most meticulous extreme, tweaked to utmost perfection. To experience them there, people visited simulation parks and specially constructed 'season centers', or in-habitat holiday resorts. Plants and edible items that flourished in colder Earth climates were engineered and grown in labs replicating those conditions, of which the decorative ended up in the botanical gardens. And, in the absence of rainfall, everywhere boasted a sprinkler system or several.

Animals, too, were mainly confined to the habitat's single, sprawling zoo; save domesticated animals, there was no actual wildlife that Talar had read about in Fauna Studies - no urban foxes, no rats or mice or hedgehogs, no raccoons, rabbits, or birds... although the dreaded spiders abounded, alongside the odd cockroach. A space station fill of multi billionaires, and they still couldn't rid their world of the nastiest of small critters.

One of the strangest phenomena Talar had observed here was the conspicuous dearth of scent and sound at night; things which the torus possessed plentifully. On Elysium, you were never far from the smell of fresh cut grass, designer fragrances, incense, or exotic meals. You could experience Earth smells such as cordite, petrol, petrichor and ozone at the simulation parks. And there was always something happening within earshot or carried on the temperate breeze – music playing, people talking, dogs barking, or the unobtrusive whir of an aircar up above. But in the middle of the Clark County desert at night, there was absolutely nothing - not even the scent of dust, the faint scurrying of a rodent, faraway howl of a coyote, or shriek of the hawks Lang had told her were ubiquitous around the mountains. Sound-wise she hadn't noticed anything that morning, either, in that tiny oasis of a garden; and scent wise, she hadn't had time to go out and roll around in the artificial morning dew, as she used to love to do as a child.

_You were saying, about the lack of sound?_

She heard it from behind her - a faint, pulsating, mechanical type of sound, somewhere high in the sky. It didn't sound like the aeroplanes, helicopters, fighter jets or stealth bombers she had heard in movies, and it was too loud for an aircar or Fulgar shuttle even at close range. She whipped round just in time to see it zoom overhead, a good several thousand feet up, streaking red, green and white light.

A Raptor, or a Raven.

A wave of paranoia hit her at the thought of who might have been on board, Lang having made her aware of which type of agent travelled in what. Luckily, her more composed side countered the thought, reasoning that Kruger's team weren't the only ones to fly in military craft; and that, even if the craft in question did happen to be Kruger's, it was unlikely if not impossible that he would know where Talar lived... save having Ramanauskas hack into the CCB mainframe, or knowing someone willing to sell him classified information, of course. But neither of those seemed likely - whilst Kruger certainly intended to make her life difficult, his job was too important for him to risk jeopardizing over some female in authority. Besides, Botha lived in Las Vegas; the team were probably returning from their mission to drop him off, as whatever vehicle he had arrived at the club in had vanished when she had left that evening, probably sent home by remote control. Then of course, there was the possibility that they were headed to Vegas to party.

Lucky for some.

Talar took one final look at her former home, floating amongst its glittering stellar companions, before returning to her present one. The light in her bedroom remained on; she still wasn't going to switch it off tonight.

* * *

11:25.

That night's sleep had proved to be fitful at best, and Talar was suffering for it now, having to down twice her normal amount of sugar-avec-coffee to maintain the same level of alertness and thus dealing with the consequences of caffeine being a diuretic. But what was really bugging her wasn't the additional need for fuel, or the more frequent trips to appease her bladder; it was the niggling little thought that had obviously wormed its way into her head during what little sleep she'd managed to get, one that she had thought her rationality had already put to rest: the possibility the Kruger knew where she lived. What was worse, she knew the only way to clear it up would be to ask him outright and hope against hope that he would answer truthfully. Having to come face to face with that onyx-eyed deviant was bad enough without putting him in a position to toy with her. And, having rationalized away her sudden bursts of attraction to him, and the accompanying guilt, wouldn't prevent him from uncannily sniffing them out. The only possible way she could try to mitigate it was either to force herself into denial, or the polar opposite - accept it and tell him "so what?". She chose the latter. If she laid herself bare, presenting herself as having nothing to lose, then there would be nothing he could take away from her. At least theoretically...

_Good luck with _that_ theory holding up to scrutiny,_ mocked a dissenting little voice in her head. She promptly told it where to shove itself, trying to concentrate on the task in hand – actual work – and Botha. As fate would have it, she had already received a directive for him that morning - a hacker bust in a São Paolo favela. Botha, and the same team from yesterday... which meant that she would be seeing them all again, questions to answer or not. At least Botha's inclusion in the mission legitimized her reason for leaving the sanctity of her office two days in a row. The more opportunities she had to make it quite clear to Kruger that it wasn't all about him, the better.

Barely fifteen minutes later, the screen signalled Botha's arrival; and, just as Talar was exiting her office, her wrist comm announced the first of the rest of the group, the others following in close succession. Kill joys. Well, if she only had five minutes 'alone' with the object of her affection, she would make damn sure they were good ones.

Fatigues-clad Botha strode in literally the moment she entered the bar. Surrounded by the beauty of an amber sunset above Australia's Ayers Rock, he approached her with a broad, genuine smile; a smile that reached his eyes. Talar acknowledged him with a more coquettish smile of her own, praying it wouldn't be lost on him. If she turned out to be mistaken and he really wasn't interested, she was now hell bent on changing his mind.

"Morning," he said impishly, still denture-less.

"How was Liberia?" she asked.

"Good, good," he replied casually. As an asset, he wasn't allowed to offer more than the vaguest of details. The most he could do was to respond to Talar's questions. But even she, as his superior, could only ask so much.

"You travelled here with the rest of the team?"

He shook his head. "But I heard them arrive just as I was signing in." He shrugged, then continued, "Maybe they're stalking me?"

"You too, eh?" Talar replied, inclining an eyebrow.

"Hmm?"

"A Raven – the craft, not the bird – flew over my house last night. I was outside at about one thirty and saw it. I'm not sure if it was your team's, but.."

"You live in Nevada?"

"I do."

"Then that was us. But as far as I know, none of the guys have any idea where you live, so don't worry."

"I wasn't."

"Hey, there's no shame in it. You're only human, you know? I saw Kruger giving you a bit of a hard time yesterday. I know that guy – he can be intimidating even at the best of times, even more so if it's your first day. I'm surprised you're not a quivering wreck, frankly."

She cracked a mildly ironic laugh. "You seem to handle him well."

Another shrug. "I'm used to it."

He flashed her that brief but pertinent look again – the one that urged her to leave before it was too late. And she could leave now, couldn't she? He'd as good as answered her question.

Yes, he had, but it wasn't enough to silence the niggling little voice. To put the doubt completely to rest she had to hear it from Kruger himself; assuming he answered honestly.

_Or is it just that you actually want to see Kruger?_

_That's absolute fucking nonsense and you know it._

_Is it though? Is it really?_

_Of course it is._

_OK then._

_Oh get lost._

_Whatever you say, Ma'am!_

The dissenting voice, it seemed, had decided to stick around; and although she could get it to shut up, the fact that she couldn't find a way to realistically counter it was beginning to worry her.

"I've got a question to a-" she began to explain, but was cut off by the nearby chirpy 'brrr brrr' of a phone - Botha's. Just a simple, standard ringtone, unlike the all-singing-all-dancing creations mostly everyone else, and Talar herself, had. Talar wasn't exactly sure why, but the difference pleased her. Maybe it spoke of practicality, of someone who didn't care for frippery and finery and ostentation, just like...

...that stunning 'new modern' property, with its razor-clean edges and mercilessly precise infinity pool, and its strikingly tasteful cube pavilion. Of all people's houses, it had to be Kruger's, didn't it? Murphy's fucking Law.

Botha fished a device from the pocket of his fatigues, excused himself, then wandered off toward the toilets where it was quieter.

_Please don't be long,_ she tried to impart telepathically to him. If only for the barest smidgen of moral support, she wanted him there when the troupe arrived. Just so they knew she had an ally. All of a sudden, she felt horribly dependent. This was getting ever more ridiculous.

A minute passed, with the scenic photos doing nothing to relax her. She was a house on the edge of a deteriorating cliff, above a tempestuous sea full of jagged rocks, and each second felt like another few inches of land crumbling away, just ticking down to the time she, too, would hurtle to her doom.

Why was she so God damn anxious? Hadn't she settled everything in her head? What, realistically, was there left to fear now?

The entry door swished open.

"Yeah," said that abrasive, smoker's voice, preceding its owner, "it's so fucking hot already that earlier on I went out in literally just a t-shirt-" And in he stepped. "In fact, no, I didn't. I had to preserve my modesty, so I wore sandals, too."

Cackles from the group, filing in immediately after.

"Oh hey!" the bearded man exclaimed joyously. "Look who's come out to play again!"

_You thought about him last night! _L'il Miss Schadenfreude reminded her. _When you were uh-uh uh-uh! Oh yes you di-id!_ And now Talar was beginning to wonder if she was in fact possessed. Maybe she just wasn't accustomed to the water here?

That was what she had left to fear: her very own, personalized demon - a wonderful fiend to match the flesh and blood one approaching her now.

He didn't stride so much as sprint over to the bar, looking sickeningly chipper.

She just about managed to swallow her raging apprehension before he bridged the gap, although she wondered if she wouldn't vomit it right back up soon enough.

"Good morning, Agent Kruger," she managed, in the blandest, most official tone she could muster.

He looked much cleaner than yesterday - well, not clean_er_; just clean. The thought crossed her mind that he may have spruced himself up for her benefit, although she dismissed it. Someone like him didn't go out of his way for anyone's benefit if he could help it. A glance at his comrades confirmed this - they were cleaner, too. There had obviously been some sort of communal Boys' Wash And Scrub Up event last night.

To her chagrin, he stank no less of tobacco, though.

_Fuck it,_ she thought. She had done so well avoiding cigarettes today, and in he comes reeking of them.

Her opponent offered her no such pleasantry, but replied instead, "What are you doing out here again, fraternizing with us lot? Didn't anyone tell you there are strict regulations that place being bureaucratic above anyone's self interest? Here, fill out this form before we continue our conversation, just because we haven't wasted enough time filling out entirely redundant forms already. Does no-one think of the trees, for crying out loud?!"

If Talar hadn't been so affronted by his very existence, she might have considered him funny. And he had a point, for once.

"They're not Earth trees, Agent Kruger."

"And thank fuck for that!" His breath came out like a current of acrid, invisible smoke, as if he literally ate, drank and breathed tobacco. Her craving for a long overdue cigarette intensified.

"And contrary to what you believe, I'm not here out of my own self interest."

He pulled a crestfallen face.

"Unfortunately," she went on, "I've got a question to ask you."

"What's that then?"

His harsh accent rendered it as "worsat din?". Dear God, the man was a walking technological wonder, adorned with skele steel implants, a neural chip, with access to the most advanced technology in the known universe, yet he hadn't been fitted with a mute button and subtitles? And was it too much to ask for him to just look away for a moment either? Although his gaze didn't simultaneously scorch and chill with the same savage intensity as it had yesterday, there was nevertheless something distinctly disconcerting about it. Today it was a slow burn, a more leisurely but no less diligent approach, rather than an outright attack.

And then, to her dismay and outright horror, she felt it again – that terrifying feeling, creeping up on her with its silent but lethal needles for claws, its daggers for teeth. She could try to run and hide from it, but it was going to get her eventually.

_You know why you _really_ don't like his voice?_* L'il Miss Schadenfreude piped up.

_Why?_

_Because you don't dislike it at all._

_What's that supposed to mean?_

_Come on, Tal. You're not stupid._

_I'd rather be, in this instance._

Loath as Talar was to admit it, the dissenting voice was correct. People like Kruger were the exact antithesis of those whose cosseted lifestyles he protected; the clean, the refined, the polite and the affected and the superficial. She hated to say it, but there was a refreshing realism about the men in front of her, and despite everything and despite herself, she couldn't help but admire that quality. These guys adopted no airs and graces; they were working class, ghetto tough guys, with no aspirations to be anything but a more wealthy version of themselves. Kruger had been blessed with an inordinate amount of time to change or tone down his accent, but it was obviously something on which he refused to compromise. The tattoos and distinguishing marks, which she was certain he would have had prior to conscription, may have had to go, but the essence of who he was remained. And that, in itself, was extremely alluring.

Because, for an Elysian woman, Kruger was the ultimate bit of rough – the type that someone like Talar could only dream of experiencing – and the fact that he took pride in it, revelled in it, made it all the more attractive.

_Oh shut up. He's revolting through and through. Even when he's clean he's revolting._

_Just you keep telling yourself that, darling._

_Rape isn't attractive. Neither is torture or murder._

_Of course. But he won't be doing any of those things to _you_._

_Maybe not overtly..._

The dissenting voice shut up, but Talar would have been a fool to conclude victory over it. That voice spoke from a place she wished could be banished, or didn't exist; that same place that, upon her first meeting with Kruger, refused to abide by sensibility or morality or cold, hard logic, because it simply didn't operate on that level. Be it primal fear masquerading as desire, or primal desire in its own right, the effect was the same.

"You still there?" his coarse voice prompted her, much to the amusement of his comrades, wrenching Talar from a trance she had obliviously slipped into.

_Shit..._

She hadn't zoned out for more than a beat, but it was long enough to prove telling. Although underplayed, she could discern the vaguest of smirks upon his lips, the faintest glint of knowing in his iris-less eyes. The speedometer of her heart began to climb.

Internally, she cursed again. This was not right. Not right at all.

_Get it together now or you're going to go under, _her resolve warned, staring her point blank in the eye whilst gripping her shoulders and forcibly shaking her. _Do it!_

Fortunately, it was just about the kick she needed.

"Did you and the others go to Las Vegas last night?"

He surveyed her for a split second, his expression neutral as a poker player's, before replying with a brusque "Why?".

How she could have been so short-sighted, she didn't know. Of all the things she had anticipated, him immediately turning the question around wasn't one of them. It was such a simple tactic, and yet she had overlooked it. The tightly woven fabric of the Talar Sampson she had always relied upon had begun to fray at the edges, hadn't it? Was it the atmosphere down here on Earth? Something to do with the difference in air quality, or gravity, assuming there was one at all? Or could it be separation anxiety? She refused to believe one man alone, in such a short period of time, could have dismantled her to such an extent, no matter how domineering his character.

The wolf was observing his prey, casually awaiting her answer, every moment of her silence, her paralysis, a small victory. She had to think of something, and fast. She would not be dead meat today.

As luck would have it, having taken an independent tour of the city's main attractions the day she arrived, she knew exactly the thing. She would just have to pray he wouldn't catch her in a lie.

"Because I think I saw you at the Mandalay Bay," she ventured, clasping at every shred of hope that she was coming across more confident than she felt; and that, more importantly, he would buy it.

"Did you now?" he parried her, vaguely quizzical.

Mercifully, on the surface she managed to hold firm. Inside, however, panic began to stir as he continued to scrutinize her. Men like him, trained in interrogation, were likewise trained in the art of sniffing out deception. They knew the tells, from the most blatant to the most subtle.

Yeah, lying had been _such_ a smart move.

Well, what was done was done. She had to get on with it and stay calm, stay calm, just stay calm. She could do it. She was better than this. She _knew_ she was better than this. Better than _him_.

"The all night pool party, at about 2am."

A broad, unnerving grin spread slowly across his face, exhibiting startlingly white teeth. Talar's first thought was to wonder how a human ashtray could have teeth so white they could be seen from space. Then came the rebounding panic, alongside the realization that her posture had become a little rigid upon telling the second lie. The panic may not have registered on her face, but it certainly would be evident from her stance; judging by which, it was already too late. The wolf's teeth were bared now, not primed to pounce and tear into her yet, but just to remind her of their deathly sharpness, of what they _could_ do. Even if he hadn't yet sussed out her lie, at the very least he had detected her nervousness, her vulnerability.

"Well," she feigned stoicism and forced herself to continue, although the little duck legs in her mind paddled frantically to maintain buoyancy and keep moving, just keep moving, "it certainly looked like your group."

_Come on, come on, come on!_ she urged Botha, who remained out of shot. She cared less now about ascertaining an honest answer from Kruger, than having to engage with him at all. Dear God, she was a prize moron for even contemplating trying in the first place. The idiom 'curiosity killed the cat' had never seemed so damn apt. There would be no such nine lives for this little feline, even in Schroedinger's parallel universe.

"You should have come and said hello," said the lupine, sarcasm dripping from his charismatic tone. "Off duty and all that, y'know?"

Talar didn't allow herself to pause, to agonize over the veracity of his response or deliberate on her own. She just had to plough straight ahead, otherwise she would lose that hard-earned momentum.

"Not enough time. I had to head home."

"Too bad," he replied nonchalantly.

"Still, I'm glad you enjoyed yourselves."

"And I'm sorry you couldn't have stayed."

"Well, I'm not like you military people who can stay awake for three, four days at a time. I need a good six hours per night to be anywhere near functional."

"You haven't lived, sweetheart."

_Yuu avn't livd, sweethawt._ Truth be told, he was right.

She feigned an over-emphatic sigh. "I guess not, Agent Kruger."

Please could he stop talking now? Fair enough, she wouldn't get her answer; she would just have to take Botha's as gospel. It didn't matter any more. Just make this talking ashtray, and the conflict he incited within her, leave her alone.

Whether by fate or miraculous coincidence, Drake interjected "Hey Delilah!"

_Thank you, thank you, thank you!_ Talar's inner voice praised him. Her audible voice, however, said "Excuse me?"

"You know, the Bible? Sampson &amp; Delilah?"

If Kruger minded the interruption, he certainly wasn't showing it. And if Talar minded the insolence, she was too relieved to acknowledge it herself.

"_I_ do," she replied. "I'm surprised _you_ do."

"Drakey boy's just full of surprises, aren't you boet?" cackled the bearded man.

So perhaps he did mind?

"So can we each get two Castle lagers please Delilah?" Drake continued.

Expressionless, Talar pointed to the droids.

"Uh, it's within our statutory rights to be served by you."

"And as your superior it's within _my_ statutory rights to point you to the proper bar staff. In fact, it's my obligation. If I wanted a job as maitre de I'd have to fill out a separate application form."

"Give it up, boet," said Kruger, sighing heavily. "Ain't no getting round this one. Bureaucracy talks and fuckerage walks, as they say."

A second miracle happened then, in the form of Botha re-emerging. A flick of Talar's gaze over to him alerted the wolf to his arrival. Immediately Kruger turned to look, the same way a predator guarding his kill followed every tiny sign and signal that a potential threat was encroaching on his territory, before deeming the younger man nonthreatening, and thusly turning back to his prey. Despite the lack of challenge Botha posed to his older comrade, Talar didn't miss the split second of pure covetousness that blazed in Kruger's predacious eyes, followed by a fleeting but equally obvious flash of smug satisfaction at that very covetousness not being lost on her.

_You're mine and you know it,_ said the look.

How dare he.

If at that moment Talar could have acted with impunity, and without consequence, she would have been sorely tempted to grab a full bottle from one of the shelves and smack Agent 32 Alpha 21b in the face with it. But whilst her indignation privately seethed, her professional side knew without any shadow of a doubt that she had to hold steady; and fortunately, it registered before it was too late. She simply couldn't afford any more defeats to him today. Absolutely not. She refused to be drawn into his game for the second time.

But why, then, was the look she shot back at him more one of defiance than indifference? Almost as if, deep down, in that deviant and self-destructive part of her subconscious, she wanted to defy _herself_ as much as him?

_Uh oh!_ delighted the Schadenfreude demon. _Look who just made a _very_ big mistake!_

Because Kruger had already swooped on the opportunity. The look he gave her now said only one thing: the game was on.

Delacourt's cronies must have done this, hours following the interview last week - snuck into her annex when she was asleep, drugged her, and implanted some sort of DNA-interfacing neural chip that would unleash a form of mental illness onto a previously stable, if not a little different, mind. She was an experiment; a walking study in fabricated psychological manipulation, that, if successful, would be used as a weapon against Elysium's defectors and enemies. And what an ideal candidate she made: a relative outsider; few connections; no droids guarding her annex; and with a workplace literally a world away from home. "She was a disaster waiting to happen" they would say, when she ended up straight-jacketed and slumped in a padded cell, after some heinous crime involving multiple murders and attempted suicide. "We always knew there was something 'off' about her; but of course, we dismissed it." Yes, being the egalitarians that they were, they dismissed it. Of course. "We wanted to give her a chance. Being on Earth just happened to be the real catalyst." No wonder Delacourt had behaved with such amicability – her plan was coming together marvellously, and the devious little bitch simply couldn't contain herself.

If only. _If only. _Because even that was preferable to what was really going on.

The lupine turned, cawing to the approaching man, "Hey Botha, what are you–"

Seemingly unphased, Botha completed the distance, drawing up at the far end of the bar beside Crowe, who merely nodded at him.

"-today's entertainment or the anti-climax?"

The group erupted into a snickering little choir. Botha just gave a curt smile, in a manner suggesting that he accommodated Kruger's little trivialities without a hitch. Nevertheless, she felt for the poor guy.

"Either way things are looking pretty dire, folks!" the boss continued, either oblivious to Botha's well-played reaction, or impervious to it. "I'm gonna make like a C-Max prisoner and bail." He waved at one of the droids: "Two Castle Lagers and a Jager bomb, guys!"

Whilst awaiting his drinks – what must have been no longer than 5 seconds but seemed more like a horrible, drawn out minute - he fixed his ruthless gaze on Talar; steady, immovable, and utterly determined. And despite everything, she was trapped there, right where he wanted her. It was a moment in which all possible thought deserted her, along with the very ability to think at all. She was wholly and completely stuck in that moment, where nothing else existed except herself and that one, leering hellion. She had never felt, never known, anything like it, anyone like _him_; and she had never been more terrified.

The drinks arrived, and, with a hint of a smirk, Kruger severed the contact. He stepped toward his beleaguered underling, pausing beside him. Talar noticed, then, that the rest of the group had fallen silent. Leaning in uncomfortably close, the bearded man said in a hushed, almost conspiratorial tone, but nevertheless loud enough for the group to hear, "Remember, boytije, it's not the size that counts; it's how you use it, right? I'm sure she won't be disappointed!" One flick of a look – a highly suggestive look, at that - in Talar's direction, and then, buoyed by the laughter of his team, he strode off toward the seating section in the far left corner.

Talar had to summon all her strength not to grimace.


	9. AMON TOBIN – Delpher

**CHAPTER 9**

A twilight capture looking into the fiery depths of Turkmenistan's Darvaza/Derweze gas crater morphed onto the screen as the rest of the group, save Botha, ordered their drinks. They were already otherwise engaged in conversation, ignoring him and Talar, which she found preferable to any discourse. She watched them with only mild interest as they went to sit with their boss, who had since placed a packet of cigarettes on the table and was holding one to his lips, a lighter in the other hand. The moment the last man took his seat, Kruger lit his cigarette, and the screens instantly enclosed the area, like some hyper-vigilant quarantine measure.

Botha, meanwhile, seemed to occupy himself with the photograph. Once the screens were fully erected, Talar followed his gaze.

"They call that place _The Gate to Hell_," he explained. "It's a natural gas crater that's been burning since 1971. Not sure if it's _still_ going naturally, but it's always an awesome sight."

"1971? It's almost as old as your boss over there."

He laughed, although there was a definite sardonic tinge to it. "Yep. I doubt he'll ever stop burning. Others come and go but he's still here."

"Listen," she said carefully, "I don't mean to pry, and I'm sure you hardly need my help, but if you ever want to just... offload about him in complete confidence, then I'm here."

The Cape Colored smiled warmly. "Likewise."

"You handle it all very well, but we all get irritated at times. And we're in a similar boat, so please do feel free. It wouldn't violate any protocols so there's nothing to worry about."

"You too, Miss...Ms?-"

"Just call me Talar."

He offered his hand. "Anies."

She accepted the handshake, noting how it lacked the roughness, the calloused thumb pads, that the other men had. In fact, Botha's skin felt incongruously soft, in the same way as his eyes radiated a distinct, genuine pleasantness that seemed notably absent in the others; especially Kruger.

"Well, Anies," she said affirmatively, "I've got another question about your boss."

"Shoot," he replied openly.

"How much does he smoke?"

Botha eyed her suspiciously, responding in a jokey tone, "You concerned about his health?"

"No. I'll leave that to the medbays."

He tittered. "Yeah, he certainly tests them to the limits of their capabilities."

"Oh?"

"Am I allowed to go into personal details?"

She paused, thinking. "To be quite honest, I'm not sure. As long as it's nothing scandalous I doubt it'll be much of a problem. Anyway, as I'm the one who's doing the asking, it'll be on me."

"If you're comfortable with that?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"OK. Well, he's had lung cancer twice since I've known him."

"Twice?!"

"Yep. Whenever he's here, those screens are up from the moment he sits down, virtually to the moment he leaves. He doesn't always smoke on missions, but off duty he's like a smoking version of that gas crater pit. I've seen him smoke two in one go on more than one occasion."

Talar laughed. "But his teeth are so white!"

"I know. I have no idea how he does it. Maybe they're caps?" He shrugged.

"You smoke?"

"Quit five years ago, haven't looked back."

"Wow. I've been trying to _quit_ for five years!"

"It's tough, man. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"Must be tough, being around Kruger."

"It used to be, but it's fine now. I never even have cravings."

"Well, kudos to you. I'll let you know if I ever get there! Unless you want to be my sponsor?" She winked.

"That's a possibility." A mischievousness glint shone back at her.

"I'm having a house warming party the weekend after this one," she lied; although she knew it wouldn't be a lie for much longer. For Elysian residents, there were no restrictions travelling in and out of the torus; none of this passport malarkey that was so stringently enforced between territories on Earth, or even the requisite paying of fares. Although she hadn't planned any such house warming event, getting her family and friends down here for one would be a cinch. "If you're interested, you can start try out your sponsoring skills then?"

A charming grin spread across the Cape Colored's face. "I can try."

"Is that cell phone private? It doesn't look like CCB issue."

"It's private."

"Mine is, too."

They went about exchanging numbers, little flutters of joy in Talar's heart at her success.

"I should be getting back," she said resignedly, replacing her phone in her fitted pocket of her tailor-made Mulberry dress.

Botha gave an understanding nod.

"I'll text you the details la-"

All of a sudden, the screens zipped back down, giving way to an outpouring of raucous chatter from the male group. Unsurprisingly, the dominant voice happened to be Kruger's. For some reason, though, it halted her in her tracks. There was just something so elusively arresting about the vivacity with which he spoke, that made her want to stop and observe. Maybe it was mere morbid curiosity? Or perhaps it was for the simple fact that, in contrast to what Botha had said, he hadn't lit a second cigarette the moment he had finished the first one. Nothing more than a passing fancy, though, Talar assumed.

What if he wanted her to overhear the conversation, though? Was this some sort of a test to gage her interest in him? Should she really allow herself to give him the satisfaction?

_Come on. Once can't hurt, can it?_

_I wouldn't be so sure._

_Well it'll just be the once. He can think what he wants. _I_ know I'm not playing into it, and that's all that matters._

_You said that about cigarettes - "just the once". And look where you are now._

_Yes, but nicotine is an actual drug._

_And you can absorb it by osmosis, simply by being near to that talking ashtray over there._

_So what's the problem then?_

But the contesting voice had already vanished.

"We really never got past that part?" the bearded man said incredulously.

"Not that I remember," Khumalo answered.

"Awww, I can't believe that. Really?!"

"You told us," replied Crowe, pointing to Drake and then himself.

"But no-one else?!"

Swanepoel, Mhlungu and Khumalo shook their heads in unison.

"Fuck... I could've sworn I've only told this story to everyone I know. Maybe I'm getting dementia."

"In all due respect, Boss," said Drake, "you're too crazy for dementia."

"Ain't that the fucking truth!" the boss cracked, to an uproarious wave of laughter from the rest of the men.

Botha nudged Talar, alerting her to the fact that she was, in fact, staring at the group. Fortunately, they seemed too absorbed in the conversation to have noticed.

"Sorry, I-" she began, but Botha interrupted her with concessionary gesture.

"Be that as it may, boys," Kruger continued after the laughter had died down, "I'll tell it again. So anyway, long story short he accidentally ends up killing the cat. Then what does he do? Any reasonable person would just fess up and take the punishment, right? But not Dozzy. Oh no. Dozzy always chooses the stupidest route of egress possible. What Dozzy does _isn't_ bury the cat in the back yard, because the mountains of kak in that yard... believe me I think the missing Tonga rubgy team got lost there, never to be seen again. No, he decides to try and flush the damn thing down the toilet. Then of course, after he's attempted it, the cat gets stuck right at the bottom and now the toilet's blocked, and he tries to pull it out but it's stuck. So he runs to my house and is pounding on my door, and my mum answers and then comes and says to me "your friend's here and he's _hysterical_," so I come to the door and he's just talking at me frantically like "quick quick! You gotta come over! I'm gonna be in serious kak if you don't come over now!"."

Still none of them appeared to know, or at the very least to care, that their superior was eavesdropping.

"So I go over to his house and find this cat stuck in the toilet, and I say "don't worry, I got this." Swear to God I thought the guy was gonna kiss me, he was so pleased. So I get right on the phone to Carson – this older kid who my eldest brother hung out with in those days – because he once told me, as you do, that he devised this ingenious set up of unblocking toilets. I didn't know what it was, but I reckoned there was nothing to lose by finding out. And he's brilliant; he's at the door in less than ten minutes.

Anyway, in all my life I never imagined what I'm about to describe to you, and I've seen a lot of things, believe me. Carson's this really stout little guy, and when I say stout I mean, remember that missing Tonga rugby team I mentioned a minute ago? Well he looks like he ate them . Like a snake that swallows a pig or similarly large animal. So, he literally drops his pants, sits on the bowl – because Dozzy's toilet doesn't have a seat – and he's bouncing up and down about an inch off the bowl, going at it really hard like he's doing something completely different, eh. But what he's actually doing is pure science in motion; he's creating a vacuum by forcing air into the bowl. There he is, going 'schooop.. blph...schooop...blph' with his hideous little obese arse cheeks, for the better part of 30 minutes. And he's sweating and panting, and it's really... Anyway, Dozzy and I are practically crying with laughter, it's so fucking surreal. Then suddenly there's this gurgling, grunting noise, and Carson stands up... eh voila! Problem solved. And there's the dead cat, floating in the bowl, and then Carson says "I take it you don't want this?", and Dozzy's like "be my guest". So Carson says he'll take it home and feed it to his dog, which he did. Finest example I've ever seen of killing two birds with one stone."

Through the ensuing eruption of guffaws, Kruger put another cigarette in his mouth, and then, before lighting up – and Talar felt it coming, but didn't have time to bolt or duck – looked directly at her, as if missile directed to her eyeballs. Perhaps it was the shock of him knowing she had been listening – that she had been found out - but she felt her heart clench painfully. It was an indistinct expression, not overtly malicious or even smug; more like a cursory check that she was still there. Evidently satisfied, he lit up, turning back to the group. The screens shot back up.

She looked back to Botha, who was again occupying himself with the pretty photographs. She felt the gnawing need to apologize to him.

"I..." she began, "I don't usually get distracted easily. It's just that-"

He placed a gentle hand on her arm; a tender touch reserved for a friend or loved one. If he was at all miffed by not having her undivided attention, then he was willing to make more concessions for her.

"It's fine," he said reassuringly. "Text me, yeah?"

"I will."

He smiled cordially, and she tried to return the gesture; but, due to the lingering embarrassment, it came out more awkward than sincere. She hoped he would understand that, too.

* * *

The infinite sky above wasn't visible from Las Vegas. Las Vegas, with its ceaseless frenzy of activity, its light pollution, and its ever present smog, truly never closed for business. Even in the mystical pre-dawn hours it was crammed, the jet laggers and insomniacs taking the place of the after workers, party goers and day walkers. And no hour was short on Elysians. No-one could get bored here, and no-one had to be lonely if they didn't want to be.

Out here in the desert, however, there was none of that. In place of towering buildings and blinding lights stretched only 360 degree vistas of forever. The moon, stars, galaxies, satellites, and the torus. Talar wondered if anyone up there was looking through a telescope right now, looking directly at her. Would they know she was one of them, or would they mistake her for just another anonymous Earthling? Had anyone else ever lived out here, she wondered? If Earth was as over-populated as many Elysians purported it to be, and space was at such a premium, why had no-one thought to build in places like this? If life was sustainable for her here, why not for others?

Because the others, all but the wealthiest Earthlings, didn't matter, did they? The Elysian authorities had probably bought up the land themselves, acres upon acres of it, just in case any such CCB employee happened to take a job down here. Never mind that in the long run having Earthlings live here, in Armadyne-constructed housing, could do wonders for the planet's economy, which would in turn benefit Elysium's; short term profit was all that mattered, it seemed. One Elysian was worth more than an entire city of impoverished Earth born. Or perhaps Talar was just an idealist who knew nothing about the finer points of economics. Because things were never really that simple, were they? If she knew anything it was that idealism didn't work.

A whisper of a breeze started up around her, too gentle to drag up any dust, although it elicited the strangest feeling, as if it were trying to alert her to something. At midnight she had gone outside, for the second night in a row, after completely failing to catch any sleep whatsoever. Having the light on may have made her feel more irrationally secure, but it was certainly a hindrance where sleep was concerned. So, she had dragged a sun-lounger from the garden through the house and out front, the wrapped herself up and lay down on the cushioned but chill plastic, listening to the sound of absolute stillness. In the back of her mind, she heard the demon from earlier on, musing on whether Kruger's Raven would fly over again.

_Perhaps you should touch yourself and moan his name,_ the demon had suggested with a dark chuckle.

Despite an uncharacteristically strong hunger in her loins, she hadn't masturbated that evening, too unnerved by the swirling mess in her head to want to risk conjoring up any thoughts of that particular South African... with his voice like wire wool on sandpaper, his cigarette scent, his high cheekbones accentuated by those metal facial implants, and his rapacious glare. She wanted Botha on her mind, and only Botha – a man who seemed to be the very antithesis of Kruger - and if that wasn't possible then it wasn't worth endangering her sanity. Whilst her rational mind retained its faculties, she knew now that it wouldn't be guaranteed the last word on anything any more. The demon had set up home, and she had no way of knowing what would rouse it, and when it would choose to engage in arguments.

She didn't suppose she had been laying there for more than twenty minutes, but she checked her watch anyway.

It was approaching 0130 hours again, and-

_What?_

There was no way she had been out here for nearly ninety minutes. Half an hour, tops. Yet, her watch said differently.

She must have fallen asleep.

The breeze grew a fraction stronger, ghosting over her face and teasing the ends of her hair. The elusive feeling re-emerged. Perhaps it was telling her to go back inside now and try once more to get some proper sleep. Or could it be some ancient, deep-rooted human instinct, in tune with elements, that could sense an impending, drastic change in the weather? Having never truly experienced real weather except for in the parks, it was something with which she was mostly unfamiliar, so having this sixth sense awaken would naturally feel strange. Maybe it was going to rain soon? The sky being currently cloudless didn't mean that a storm wasn't gathering elsewhere, moving steadily closer. Perhaps there would be thunder and lightning, too?

The big kid in her wanted to stay outside and await the downpour. She wanted to get _caught_ in the downpour, feel what it was really like to have rain pelt your skin and soak your hair and clothes. Genuine rain, in an unsimulated environment.

"You haven't lived, sweetheart."

_What-_

Startled, she jumped up from her chair. She was sure she had heard it. His voice. The same mocking phrase, with its accordingly derisive tone, from earlier.

She spun round to face her house, ten meters away. Her eyes having adjusted to the darkness, she could see that the door remained closed. She had locked it after closing it, in the event that any spiders decided to sneak in. Huntsman spiders and Carolina wolf spiders were common in arid areas, Yasmin had delighted in teasing her; the Carolinas being the biggest species of wolf spider in North America. Both were large spiders in general - the size of a 'small' tarantula.

_Wolf_ spiders.

He was here. That was what the breeze was – residual murmurs of a craft ascending into the sky... or hovering up there, its lights off.

No, that was ludicrous. She couldn't imagine those crafts were deathly silent. Had anything landed in the vicinity she would have woken up. And if any such craft were hovering above her, its lights would surely be on.

_How do you know it didn't land miles away, and he walked here then shot you from a distance with a target-specific tranquilizer dart? How do you know he didn't shoot you from the _craft_ with a tranquilizer dart?_

Gripped by panic, she turned a slow 360 degrees, scanning the sky for the tell-tale blinks of red, green and white. Nothing... because now... yes, there were clouds, obscuring even the brightest of stars. As if suddenly having materialized from absolute nowhere, clouds flooded the sky. The breeze was picking up, too, now potent enough to agitate the dust. So she would get to experience rain after all; she would get to _live_.

But no, no, she couldn't stay out here, waiting for _him_ to tire of waiting her out.

But she couldn't go back in. Who knew what awaited her in there? Would it just be him, or had he brought his buddies, too?

_I've raped women better than you._

She had been set up, she just knew it. Everything, from Andrew Chisholm's 'death' to her landing a job here and choosing this specific house, was merely a deftly-orchestrated ruse to get rid of her. Why, she couldn't fathom. What in the world had she done to warrant eliminating? Or had one of her immediate relatives done something to warrant the elimination of the entire family? And Delacourt had chosen the nastiest of the nasty for sweet little Talar, hadn't she? Why else would she have been allowed to view the man's files?

_No, no, no..._

Him, or one of his team alone would be enough to take her out. A whole group of them, and she may as well give up hope now. What if they _all_ decided to rape her? Khumalo and Mahlangu too had racked up several sexual offenses against women.

_Stop it, Talar. STOP. IT._

She had to stop panicking; that was what Kruger wanted. She couldn't let herself think so fatalistically either, let alone admit immediate defeat. He wanted her confused, disorientated, and incapacitated with fear. She couldn't give in to him; she _wouldn't_. There was no conspiracy against her. Neither was anyone going to off her or her family, least of all by Kruger's hands. There had to be a way through this through whatever it was he wanted; and even if there wasn't, she owed it to herself to at least try. Perhaps his intentions were no more sinister than simply to scare her. He would have been caught on camera, and, having no way of disabling them, the locks, and the house droids without arousing suspicion, there would have been no way of him forcing an entry either. Thus, he had to be outside, either behind or in the garden, and-

But what if he had employed some remote devices to kill the security from afar?

Well, if that had happened, there was nothing left but to go back in and confront him.

_Inhale, exhale, long and slow. Good. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Thaaaat's right._

Leaving the sun-lounger to its sodden fate, she began walking towards the house, towards the waiting wolf, more tentatively than she would have liked; but it was the best she could do.

_Why Grandma, what a big gun you have! One in your hand and another in your pocket!_

_Quiet, you._

_Hey, lighten the fuck up. I'm just trying to diffuse the tension here._

_Liar._

_Fine, have it your way!_

Struck by a thought, she stopped, two meters from the door. If she could get him to come round to the front, or outside if he happened to be within, she would at least have chance to run to the sun-lounger and try to grab it, use it against him. Although sturdy, it was lightweight enough for her to lift and swing through the air if she really put all her effort into it. Inside the house it wasn't quite spacious enough to break into a proper run without tripping over an object, and in the garden he would have the chance of throwing her into the pool and drowning her.

"Listen," she called out with surprising calm, "wherever you are, I'm near the door. Come here and let's talk."

No response. She waited one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten seconds. Still nothing. Maybe he wasn't in the mood to negotiate.

"I know you're here. I know you can hear me. Please, just come to where I'm standing."

Still nothing. Maybe he didn't fancy getting soaked, either.

The atmosphere surrounding her seemed much closer now, heavy and dense; and the electricity had thickened, almost as if tiny, invisible livewires danced in the air, pricking and prickling her skin. Her heart decided to re-announce itself by starting up a frantic drumming... or perhaps it had been drumming away like that for minutes, and she simply hadn't noticed? She noticed, too, that her palms were clammy.

Another ten seconds of silence.

"I promise I won't report you."

More blankness.

"OK, listen. Whatever you want, tell me. If you just come here, whatever it is, we can talk. I'm no match for you and you know it. Where am I going to run to? I'm not. You've got nothing to lose."

Yet more silence.

_Fucksake._

_OK, _you_ listen. What if he's not actually here at all? What if you just imagined that you heard him? You fell asleep, you were still dozy. Maybe you were even half dreaming?_

_I heard his voice loud and clear_.

_Remember what Doctor Fritz said about hypnagogic hallucinations? You were convinced they were real, too._

She did remember. During her fifteenth year, she frequently awoke into a state of absolute paralysis, whilst a snarling, gleaming-toothed animal, lion-sized and made of smoke, pawed at her lower legs, scraped its teeth against them as if tenderizing her before taking a bite. Although it lasted no more than half a minute, before dissolving into thin air, it had seemed so absolutely, unshakably real. She had heard its snarls and low growls then, clear as day, and she had felt the smooth surface of its enamel, together with the conflicting softness of its paw pads, uncomfortable scrape of its claws, and gentle waft of its smoky, charcoal-colored fur. Fearing for her sanity, her parents had taken her to Dr. Fritz, who had assured them that this was a harmless, surprisingly common condition known as 'sleep paralysis', in which patients experienced all manner of sensory hallucinations when slipping into or out of sleep, when the mind was active but the body already or still sleeping. Nothing to worry about, he had said. It would clear up of its own accord. He had been right, of course; less than a fortnight later, the smoke animal had vanished, only to return a handful of times ever since.

_But I was always paralysed at the time. When I heard Kruger, I jumped straight up._

_You were laying down when you heard him. You hadn't even thought of moving until after then._

_But I did move. I was always paralysed for thirty seconds before._

_You might have been awake before then and weren't aware of it._

Well, that seemed feasible. Nevertheless, it didn't mean she hadn't hallucinated. Either way, she couldn't stand there forever. She would have to go in now, regardless.

The rain began literally the moment she reached the door, before she had the chance to see whether or not it was properly closed. It came on incredibly strong; fast, hard, and startlingly insistent, as if desperate to purge some ill from above, or crush whatever lay below. She paused for an extended moment, mesmerized by the downpour, battering the sun-lounger. She had watched hard rain before, in the parks, even danced around in it, but seeing it on Earth felt so much more...real. Beautiful, almost.

Eventually she turned around to the door... finding it ever so slightly ajar, thanks to a small wooden stopper wedged between the threshold and the door itself.

She gulped audibly. Her throat constricted. He _was_ in there.

_Don't panic, please…_ she urged herself, whilst trying to formulate something resembling a plan of action. _Nothing's changed in the last few minutes. You knew he was here then, and you know for definite now. And you also know that he-_

_Shit, no..._

If he had disabled the locks, he would have outed the cameras, too, no doubt about it. The guy may have been keen to get in, but he wasn't stupid or desperate enough to do so without any precaution. He had planned this. Botha hadn't known it, but the flight over her house yesterday was no mere coincidence. She should have trusted her instincts. She should have known...

But then, what good would it have done her anyway? It wasn't as if she could have reported Kruger until the actual event, even if she had stayed inside, by which time it would have been too late, as he obviously had the means to enter.

No precise plan came to her. She had nothing on her that could constitute a weapon, nor anything in the house readily to hand. She hadn't expected she would ever need to. The nearest sharp objects were the knives in the cutlery draws; but the kitchen was past the living room and then the dining room, which, even with a semi open-plan setting, suddenly seemed impossibly far away. Furthermore, in the living room itself she owned little in the way of readily fling-able objects, let alone any that would have any lasting impact against a highly trained, very physically capable and pain-tolerant military veteran. Her bedroom lay even further away, leaving little chance of even making it to there and grabbing her antiperspirant spray or perfume. The master bathroom stood to the left, running parallel with the dining room, but around the property's only blind corner, therefore allowing no opportunity to dive in and swipe the bathroom scales.

_Take off your jacket and throw that, then. Nothing to lose._

If that was all she had, then it had to trump nothing, right?

She removed her jacket, oblivious to the chill outside air, and with her left hand clasped it to her chest. Another deep breath, and cautiously she pushed the door open, venturing forward into the dark interior. She had left a living room lamp on to guide her way, but her assailant had obviously switched it off. Her bedroom door far ahead was closed, with no light seeping through the minuscule sliver beneath. Immediately she craned her arm out to the wall at her right, fumbling for the light switch. The front door creaked as it slowly attempted to close behind her, emitting a gentle wooden swoosh as the stopper prevented it from completing its course. Wherever the intruder was, the lack of any other sound would have accentuated that of her entry.

Light flooded the room, temporarily blinding her. He could have struck then, but he didn't. Seconds later, her vision adjusted to reveal no difference than when she had left. She wasn't sure whether she had expected to find the place ransacked, the transparent wall dividers shattered and items strewn everywhere... yet, apart from the dining room light having been switched off, there was absolutely no sign of entry or disturbance at all. Alarmingly, there was also no sign of the droids.

She paused, listening. No tell tale sounds of footsteps or even breaths other than her own, although she could hear her own heartbeat loud enough. No footprints on the polished marble floor. The glass divider to her left – transparent, too - which functioned as a wall, hid nothing. Neither were there any hiding spaces in the living or dining room. He had to be ducking down in the kitchen; behind one of the closed doors – either of the two bedrooms; the master bathroom; the two toilets; outside in the garden...or in the underground garage. She should go to the kitchen, where she could grab a knife or a skewer or something similarly pointed and sharp. Even if it transpired to be completely futile, or even counterproductive, it could elevate her chances from zero to zero point five.

Cautiously, she removed her slippers and began to traverse the space that would have otherwise comprised the hallway. It seemed to take forever, the clear wall dividers not only creating the illusion of open-plan spaciousness, but now seeming to physically exaggerate it. The kitchen drew closer, although the breakfast bar obscured her view of half the floor space. A silent mantra running through her head - *_please don't let him be there, please don't let him be there_* - she crept forward.

Four steps until the kitchen table. Five until the breakfast bar. Six to see over it. She could make it.

Her movements slowed to a snail's pace, although her heart seemed to compensate for it in both speed and volume. Tiny beads of sweat began forming at her temples and around her hairline, and the hair at the back her neck seemed to cling, itchy and slightly damp. Her pyjamas, too, now chafed rather than comforted, and the jacket she held now felt like a scratchy mess of static.

Six steps...

Pause. Deep, trembling breath.

Five steps...

Pause again.

Four...

Three. She reached the table.

Two. She stood level with the breakfast bar.

_OK, this is it..._

One step-

And she peered over. Nothing.

O_h thank God.. Thank you... Thank you God.._

But no droids either.

She tiptoed to the cutlery draw, squinting and holding her breath as she gently eased it open, before grabbing a steak knife. It took another agonizingly slow few seconds to close the draw, but she managed it.

She took a moment to compose herself, before deciding to head towards her bedroom, rather than through the kitchen's floor-to-ceiling sliding door to the garden.

For an instant she considered calling to him again, asking him to come into the main space. He knew she was in the house, so what more harm could it do? Much less harm than having her walk into the more confined space of the bedrooms or bathroom.

Yet, she felt the strongest suspicion that he wasn't going to comply. This was a man who must have participated in innumerable stakeouts, who hid and lived behind enemy lines until the moment to strike, and who, more importantly, could survive days at a time without sleep. Patience and tenacity were very much virtues of his, when necessary. She could call him, plead with him, beg him, or even just sit out here and wait indefinitely for him to emerge, and it would do no good.

She could leave the house.

No, she couldn't - the stairs to the underground garage were around that one blind corner at the side of the toilets. And he was as likely to be down there as anywhere else.

Nothing for it then but to try her bedroom, come what may.

Slowly she approached the door, then drew another, almost painfully deep breath, before wrapping her hand around the stainless steel handle.

_Wait!_

_What?_

_Just think about this for a moment-_

_About what?_

_Why would Kruger risk his job just to frighten you?_

_How should I know? And if he's not here then why was the front door open? Why was the light off and my bedroom door closed? And where are the droids?_

_There has to be a rational explanation. You're tired and stressed. You probably did things without thinking._

_I'm tired but I'm not absent minded._

_Just stay in the living room for a little longer until you've calmed down. Then everything will be fine._

_No it won't. And if I stand here arguing with myself much longer I might as well-_

Out of the blue, she was grabbed from behind, a scream tearing from her throat. Powerful hands wrenched her backwards, spun her around and flung her mercilessly onto the cream marble, the jacket stolen from her left hand hand and the knife falling from her right and skirting out of reach as the motion overpowered her.

She yelped in both shock, terror and pain as she hit the ground forwards, her mind blank except for the absolute here and now. She wasn't even afforded time to try and scramble to her feet before cruel hands were clutching at her hair again, yanking her back to her feet, and an arm hooked around her neck, pressing harshly under her chin. The upper arm was clothed, its lower part naked, graced with soft, fine brown hairs. She smelled dust, musk, but most of all the almost overpowering residue of cigarette smoke; and she felt the leanness and heat of the body behind her. And she sensed particles of electricity.

The question of where the hell he could have come from, and how she hadn't heard him approaching, only registered as an afterthought. What did it matter now anyway?

"You've been thinking about me a lot, baby," he rasped in her ear, liquor heavy on his breath. "So let's see if I live up to your expectations."

Her heart went bezerk, and-

Talar had always thought waking into a cold sweat from a nightmare was a myth propagated by the movies. Yet, there she was, cold and clammy and soaking her pyjamas with sweat. Her bedside light cast a soothing golden glow, just as she had left it. Panting, she sat up, turning around to glance at her alarm clock. 0300 exactly. The witching hour, according to some.

_Fuck!_

She stayed in that position, waiting to recover from the shock, if only physically. After several protracted minutes her heart had lessened to a less obtrusive thud, and the dizziness and disorientation had cleared. The sweat still clung to her and the sheets beneath, though; she would need to change clothes, and have the droids change her bedsheets. A shower wouldn't go amiss either.

She shuffled out of bed, stripped, and on shaky legs exited the room, making sure to leave the door open. As she stepped into the makeshift corridor, with its clear, ¾ length and height glass divider for a wall to separate the bedrooms and master bathroom from the rest of the house, she switched on the central lights. A sigh of relief expelled itself upon seeing the droids stationed by the front door.

"Laundry. Bedclothes change," she called to them, before rounding the internal corner past the second bedroom, and then forward to the master bathroom.

She washed her hair quickly, and then began on her body, all the while applying more pressure to herself than she was used to, as if trying to forcefully remove a toxic substance from beneath her skin and scalp. It was all so ridiculous, so utterly absurd; she had 'known' Kruger for all of two days – eight, counting the first glimpse of his file – and not only was he on her mind more than Botha, but he had already become so deeply ingrained in her psyche that she was dreaming about him?

_Oh..._ a shiver of pleasure ran through her upon the sponge making contact with her crotch, and another one as it soaped up her vulva. Her nipples began to respond, hardening a little. An image of that leering expression flashed through her mind, and the feeling of that arm crooked under her chin as his raspy voice wormed its way into her ear canal.

_What?!_

It made no sense, yet at the same time it made absolute sense. It was, she told herself again, simply her survival instincts kicking in. The more attracted she felt to him, the less afraid she would be in the event that he did try to rape her. That was it, and nothing more, right? OK, possibly the overabundance of testosterone and tobacco too, both of which played on her most primal instincts... or the instincts of any fertile woman, for that matter.

But how was it, then, that only Botha had a similar effect, if all the military agents were a bunch of walking testosterone cocktails? Well, to be fair, none of the others had as much tobacco in the mix.

_Second time, same conclusion. Do you really need to analyze it further?_

She didn't.

Ignoring the burst of sensation in her core, she finished showering, trying to keep her mind blank except for the intoxicating coconut and vanilla fragrances that now filled the room, mingling and dancing in a perfect marriage of piquant sweetness. It worked until she left the room, glancing her desk on the other side of the corridor divider, its laptop and satellite phone laying dormant. She couldn't keep this to herself; she had to talk to Yasmin. The CCB ran on USA Pacific Time Zone – perhaps one reason why the club and housing were stationed in Nevada – so, at 0315 hours, her friend would still be asleep. Still, that didn't mean Talar couldn't email her.

She went to her desk, sat down, then flipped open the slimline laptop and pulled up her email provider. She had a feeling there was en essay just waiting to get out.


	10. SCOTT MAC - Damager 02

**AN**

I've amended Kruger's weight to 170lbs/77kgs and 10% body fat. Although that weight is still a stretch (because you really don't realize just how lean the guy is until you see him next to other average sized guys), even when packing a lot of lean muscle into that slim body, it's a little less preposterous than the higher weight the merchandise file put him at. For reference, Brad Pitt was 175 during Troy, and Sharlto is slimmer than him, so 170lbs/77kgs seems about right.

* * *

**CHAPTER 10**

By all accounts, an aerial shot of Venezuela's mist-shrouded Mount Roraima should have induced peace and relaxation, or at the very least a tranquil, flowing awe; as should its successor – a panoramic view of Elysium's grand botanical gardens. Today, however, relaxation or tranquil awe proved difficult to come by. Although Talar had managed to get back to sleep, it wasn't the kind of deep, restorative rest needed to prep her for the day ahead. The sleep issue was nothing new to her, copious amounts of caffeine keeping her just about afloat, with cigarettes stepping in to tone down the nerves and jitters; but this time there was something neither the caffeine nor the nicotine could mitigate. Back at her previous workplace, the worst she would have to worry about was her lowly position; when Yasmin was unavailable, she had become accustomed to eating lunch or taking breaks alone, generally unconcerned by the snickers and glances of her better looking and more socially adept colleagues. If people wanted to be petty and bitchy, let them. For the most part, she had learned how to rise above it.

Here, however, it was impossible to just rise above things; not when they had already gotten under her skin and melded themselves to her very bones. Ultimately it didn't matter how and why they affected her; only that the effect was the same. Although writing a lengthy email to Yasmin had helped lift some of the pent-up tension, the relief proved to be short-lived. At home, she was OK. En route to work, she was OK. From her arrival at the warehouse to her entry into her office, she was still OK. Even when she received a non-essential mission to be sent to _him_ and three of his team, she was for the most part still OK.

It was only at 11:01, when that name – his name – flashed up on the screen, indicating his arrival, that she realized she had merely been coasting along rather than driving herself forward. The third day in a row, and the earliest arrival time yet.

That three of his regular team, as opposed to five, accompanied him, did nothing to alleviate her already piqued apprehension; the absence of Botha only further compounding her internal unsteadiness. Because, although she hadn't gone out to greet them, it hadn't stopped her _wanting_ to, even without Botha there. It was as if some invisible thread tethered to the bar had attached to her, lassooed around her, and was tugging gently but insistently, prompting the demon's heretic whispers to swirl like smoke round and round in her mind. Just like cigarette smoke. Like _him_.

_Go out and talk to him. You can find an excuse,_ they said. _You might just be curious as to why they're here, right?_ It worried her even more that part of her now wanted to subject herself to this... that she might, in fact, somehow be enjoying it. Shit, perhaps she really did have a masochistic streak?

At 11:14, she was considering texting Botha just to see how he was, or sending him an instant voice message, but continued to hold back for fear of seeming desperate. Understanding and navigating the delicate, complex dance of interpersonal exchanges wasn't always her strongest suit, and she didn't want to blow her chances with Botha by acting precipitously...if indeed texting or instant voicing a love interest barely 24 hours after exchanging numbers would be construed as desperate? During the prelude to each of her romantic relationships, contact between herself and her would-be boyfriends had been sparser, for this very reason. She was cognizant of the fact that, whilst certain things seemed perfectly innocuous to her, they were often regarded in an entirely different light by others. Anticipating what that different light would be, however, wasn't something she had ever properly mastered. Friendliness and genuine concern could come across as desperation. Musings and guileless curiosities often seemed like prying. Self-deprecations would be mistaken for ego-boosting solicitations.

She decided to hold back. Unless he contacted her sooner, she would have to wait until at least tomorrow. Tomorrow was Saturday, which, being one of her two days off, might lend a more casual air to her overture. Although the assets had to be on call 24/7, they would nevertheless appreciate that the set up was different for her.

Going to the bar to see Kruger, though; would _that_ not seem desperate; or at the very least, keen? Wouldn't he just see right through even the most solid excuse she could devise, as if it were nothing more than a soap bubble, flimsy and just waiting to be popped out of existence? However she chose to couch it, deny it, he would see it for what it really was. She found herself oscillating between two extreme approaches: blunt honesty, and steely denial, neither of which would ultimately work in her favor. Of course, there was always the option of not venturing out there at all. Just immerse herself in her work and force all thoughts of him from her head... but that was seeming ever more impossible by the moment. Be it simply bad boy allure or something more, he was like a tub of the most sinful, calorie-laden icecream; the sort of foodstuff that you could just about gather the willpower to avoid when you were out and about, but that you would feel overwhelmingly tempted to consume were it sat in your own freezer.

Fingers of her left hand drumming impatiently on the lucite surface of her desk, she eyed her pack of cigarettes, an arm's length away from her at the desk's edge. Perhaps she should just chain smoke for the next hour, after which it would be past midday and thus into the general lunch hour, and if he hadn't left by then, then she could emerge? After all, she had more self control and Goddamn dignity than to run fawning after him, didn't she?

_But in an hour, if he leaves, you won't know when you'll next see him. What if he doesn't show up on Monday? What about when he has no missions? And what about when-_

No, no, this was all wrong. She couldn't allow herself to think like this, or to give in so readily. She would exercise patience and damn well wait the hour; her self respect deserved at least that.

She reached for the packet of cigarettes.

One hour. Just one hour. She could do this.

* * *

As luck would have it, fortune chose to work in her favor. By 12:17 the club was the busiest Talar had seen it yet, with a further thirty eight agents having turned up, one of whom happened to be Ramanauskas; Osvaldas, as Talar reminded herself to address him. She now had an excuse: to introduce herself to, or at least get a glimpse of, agents she hadn't yet met, and also follow up on small talk with Ramansauskas. So far, no-one had left, either. Perhaps some event was going on that she should have been aware of? Could it be something to do with-

That door. She couldn't believe it had slipped her mind. She tapped the transparent screen of the right laptop, the icons materializing out of the void, and pressed the manual. A list of 50 numbered files appeared, none of them named. Which file had Lang said?

_Damnit_.

She couldn't remember, and she certainly wasn't going to waste valuable work time going through every file to find out. Perhaps if she stayed on afterwards, presuming it didn't upset poor Henry too much.

_Henry_, she thought, chuckling under her breath. As if droids had feelings.

But she had lasted the hour, and now, she thought with a mixture of excitement, trepidation, and nervous energy, it was time to reward herself. Reward, in the most ironic sense of the word.

"Well Henry," she announced, snapping on her wrist comm and standing up, "over to you!"

As a resplendent capture of Tasmania's Wineglass Bay phased into the electric pastels of Oregon's Mt. Bachelor at sunrise after a heavy snowfall, she stepped out into the corridor. Whether she was specifically attuned to it or it just happened to be the loudest noise in the vicinity, the first thing she heard even before the automatic door permitted her entry into the fray, was that wire-wool voice. Seconds later, she entered the bar, to be greeted by him, Crowe, Drake and Swanepoel seated at the left side of counter. All appeared to have maintained the same cleanliness as yesterday, except for the jaw-covering section Kruger's beard, which looked as if he had intentionally smeared with cigarette ash...as if to tease her outright. Her heart gave a modest clench, but she didn't retreat. She must have gone crazy to voluntarily wander into the lion's den, but now she was there, she had to try and fight.

"Gonna get my highbrow on here and say he '_failed to address the enormity of the situation'_," said the bearded man, "ahem...'_such that the entire sorry spectacle_' ended even sorrier and even less spectacular."

"What are you talking about again?" Swanepoel prodded him, in that exaggerated Afrikaner accent.

"He forgot to put salt on the fries."

"Ohhh."

A chorus of guffaws ensued, pausing only briefly in recognition of Talar's approach.

"Well looky here," remarked Kruger, appraising her appearance with a quick swipe of his gaze, "I think we've made a friend!"

"You're the ones who've turned up three days running," she parried him sweetly, to her own shock and awe.

Unsurprisingly, he rebounded with immediacy, his tone as cool and unphased as his physical composure, "Who says our intentions are friendly?"

That got her, and her telling pause let him know it. Right then, with his iris-less eyes focused unwaveringly on hers, she remembered exactly why she had become afraid of this man in the first place. Although the air was filled with music and chattering voices, the silence between her and him seemed the loudest of all; a silence that screamed shrilly, sending an icy chill down her spine and kicking her heart into a cantering state.

Even if the cameras had picked up his voice, she knew – and she was certain he would know, too - his remark wouldn't have been incriminating enough to earn him a scolding. And even if it had, she wasn't a child, relying on her elders to ensure her safety. She was down here alone and she had to look after herself. Thus, if she didn't say something now, he would claim absolute victory, stealing another portion of her self respect in the process. As his superior she couldn't afford to let him do that.

So, instead of trying to slay him and his cackling comrades with a breezy witticism – not that anything occurred to her, unfortunately – Talar ignored his response entirely, replying instead, "It's unusually busy here today. Nothing mentioned in my work calender, so I was wondering if something unofficial was going on?"

Smirking coolly, her adversary replied, "If it was, why would we tell _you_?"

Oh, she'd walked straight into that one hadn't she.

_Do something. Anything. Do it now!_

She shrugged, firing off the first thing that sprang to mind, "Fair enough. You're not obligated to tell me everything. I'll just go and ask someone else."

Only then did she realize that asking someone else – Ramanauskas – would require leaving the relative safety of the behind-counter space. The two agents at the right end of the bar were deep in conversation to the extent that they hadn't even noticed her appearance, and she hadn't introduced herself to anyone else, so there was no-one else _to_ ask. Fuck, she was stupid. The Talar Sampson who had previously excelled at thinking on her feet, seemed to have been startled into submission, because that Talar Sampson would never have behaved so rashly. Had she just taken another three seconds to compose herself, she might have even devised a more apropos answer; but no, she'd given in to knee-jerk reactions, to the stupid prideful need to feign an impregnable front. Indeed, pride came before a fall.

_Just tell him honestly. Tell him he frightens you. It's not like he doesn't know it already._

_I don't think so. He might have more respect for me if I put up a fight._

_He has no respect for you at all, honey, and you're unlikely to make him change that._

_Well I can try. I have to._

Yes, she did have to. She was his superior, albeit in title alone, and she had to behave accordingly. She had to maintain some degree, some air, of authority, false though it was; which meant that she had to show confidence in her decisions, and confidence in herself to follow those decisions through.

She quickly scanned the room, noting a sanely dressed Ramanauskas in the second to far right compartment, absorbed in a game of chess with another agent, whilst others crowded around, watching intently.

Although she was in no doubt that unofficial, underhand things occurred in above-board settings – after all, that was half of what the Bureau prided itself on - if there _was_ something going on, and it was caught on camera, and she was out there, she should at least recognize her duty to report it. Showing loyalty to her employers, and dedication to her work, was what had helped keep her employed in the first place.

_Or you could make a complete moron of yourself. You honestly think whatever happens here hasn't already been sanctioned? _

That was a point. Hadn't Lang said something to the effect of the Bureau "looking after" their assets? And hadn't he looked just a fraction awkward when he'd said it? Being the straight-laced person that he was, or that he appeared to be, that likely meant remunerations other than money. Talar would indeed look like a prize dunce if she reported hardcore drugs being shared, bets being placed, or shares in Armadyne's subsidiaries being bought and sold. In fact, she would look worse than a prize dunce; she'd look like someone who had been living under a rock her entire life.

So no, if her suspicions turned out to be correct, she would just have to keep it to herself, fake obliviousness as most underlings had to do. Don't ask, don't tell. At any rate, she doubted the Bureau expected her to remain ignorant of such matters; their employment of mercenaries in all but name was one of the worst kept secrets within the organization. And that was the key word: _within_ the organization. Although they knew their staff talked amongst themselves, they could sleep easy at night, smugly safe in the knowledge that anyone who dared talk outside would be discreetly 'dealt with'.

"But I _am_ obligated to tell you some things," Kruger went on, matter-of-factly.

Talar paused, her curiosity roused, although her apprehension began to bubble in anticipation of whatever trap she would voluntarily throw herself into should she deign him a response.

_But what if it's something important? _

_It's not. He would have told you immediately, then had his fun. He'd be in dereliction of duty otherwise. _

"Oh?" she replied, faking indifference, hoping to be able to brace herself for whatever was coming.

His expression entirely without guile, he said, "I went commando especially for you today."

His comrades guffawing, and him holding her gaze with a casual ease, all she could do in her stunned state was blink and reply curiously, "Oh...kay.." What part of the ether that nugget of genius had come from, she couldn't fathom, but it had accomplished its mission in throwing her entirely off guard.

He regarded her, his face unchanging, awaiting further response.

Trying her best to appear amused rather than miffed, she replied, "What do you want me to say? That's great? Thank you, I'm flattered? Good for you? How about "I don't believe you, so let me check"? In which case I'd be joking anyway."

_No you wouldn't._

Suddenly, she caught on. He _did_ know, and he _was_ determined to use it against her.

"Aww, come on. At least a little interest would be nice. Preferably physical."

"Not interested-" _liar_, "-but thank you for your consideration."

"That so, eh?"

"Agent Kruger, frankly I could care less if you were wearing women's panties, garters and suspenders."

His expression lit up excitedly. If he had been an actual wolf, his ears would have twitched then stood to attention. "Oooh, kinky! You like kinky stuff, girl?-"

"-Now that's an image I'm never going to get out of my head," she heard Drake mumble beneath Kruger's reply of "I can put some on if that's what you want?"

"Nah. I think the crotch area might be too voluminous for you." More guffaws from his merry men. "The suspenders might suit you, though."

"See, here you are taking pot shots at my manhood, but I'm being gracious enough to let you find out how wrong you are, and you won't take it. It doesn't even have to be a sexual thing-" oh, of course it didn't, "purely an objective exercise in...measuring, OK? I'm even flaccid, if that's what you're afraid of? More of a shower than a grower, which has its perks. I think, if you're not afraid to be turned on-" shit, now he wasn't even dancing around it, "then you're afraid to be proved wrong."

_Deny! Deny! Deny!_

"How about simply not wanting to join in with your puerile little games?"

"Puerile?" That seemed to amuse the group even more. "Now that's a word I've not heard in a long time. Wanna give me an English lesson? Actually I think we could use one. Drakey's been alive nearly as long as me but he's still pretty much monosyllabic, aren't you boet? Can you say that word: mo-no-syl-lab-ic?

Drake flipped him the bird.

Feigning outrage, his boss retorted, "I'm only saying it because I care!" He focused back on Talar, continuing "Anyway, the offer still stands."

"Well thanks, Agent Kruger, but I'll have to decline."

But oh, how her heart was pounding now. If he was telling the truth about being more of a shower, then-

_That's enough for today. Enough. Y'hear?_

He gave a saccharine smile. "How about this, Ms Sampson: supposing you're right, and there's something going on here today, how about you lay down your pride and then I'll tell you what you want to know? Quid pro quo, eh?"

His ability to twist the situation to his advantage was as alarming as it was impressive. Perhaps that was what he had been doing all along, going in there blind and simply using her reactions as a springboard to invent new contraptions with which to toy, manipulate, and ultimately ensnare her? It put to shame her previous ability to think on her feet. After all, this battle-hardened military veteran had 174 years to hone his tactics; how could she ever hope to contend with that?

Short answer: she couldn't. But she would be damned if she didn't give it her best shot whenever possible.

She employed a bland smile. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'm going to ask someone else."

He sighed, giving a slight shake of his head. "The longer you push things away, the worse it is when they come back to bite you on the arse."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said her audible voice dismissively. Her inaudible voice, however, cursed him for what it knew he was doing. She turned and made for the exit gate, forcing herself to ignore the horribly smug chuckles from his direction, and not to react to anything he might choose to follow it up with. She would go straight over to Ramanauskas, politely interrupt him, find out what she wanted to know, then return to her office without so much as exchanging parting pleasantries with Kruger and his team. She wasn't the only one who'd had enough for today.

* * *

174 years, although 26 short of the average Elysian lifespan, equated to at least twice that of your average Earthling. Closer to two and a half. But the charismatic, newfound bane of Talar's life was no average anything _or_ anyone. Botha was right – others could come and go, live and die, and dear old Agent Kruger would still be nowhere near to checking out. Such was his value to his employers, he would breeze past 200 and go on indefinitely. To be so valuable as to be granted immortality, that was power. And to leave a lasting impression, a legacy, a part of yourself that stayed with someone in your absence; that was power, too. Loath as Talar was to admit it, Agent C. M. Kruger had power over her.

It was the reason she froze upon waking up for the second time that night – barely an hour after she had gotten back to sleep - to find her right foot dangling at the end of the bed.

Even until the end of her adolescence, her bedtimes were plagued by the irrational fear that letting any limb dangle at the edge of the bed would be grounds for a monster to materialize underneath it, grab her, and yank her from the safety of the mattress down to a floor that would surely spell a horrific and agonizing death. That space beneath her haven of comfort and sleep held a mystical, terrifying quality; it was the portal to another world, another plane of existence, timeless and enduring, that held terrors unimaginable to naïve, innocent eyes. It hadn't helped that the prankier of her two brothers had in fact hid under the bed on one occasion, and pulled her out when her foot had accidentally stretched out too far upon turning over. That little incident had helped perpetuate a fear that should have passed with her childhood, one that grew from fears of immortal nightmare creatures below the bed to that of their real life counterparts; true evil and malice existed in the minds of people. It was _people_ who hid under your bed or in your wardrobe, primed to attack. People, fellow human beings, with unforgiving implements of torture, who wanted to revel in your terror, your anguish, your helplessness, your pain, and your humiliation. What her brother had meant as a prank, others would treat as deadly serious business.

Deviants like that proliferated on Earth, said the more paranoid Elysians. Most of them ended up in prisons; institutions that served no function on the torus because everyone was decent here. It appeared to be of no consequence that medbays could not yet cure any psychological aberrations – crime of such a catastrophic caliber simply didn't exist... or if it did, the government managed to do a damn good job of concealing it. Whether that applied to more insidious crime, and less demonstrative psychological issues, however, could be a different story entirely. If one in every hundred people had some form of mental 'difference' – be it bipolar disorder or schizophrenia – then the utopia of Elysium harbored a notable number of 'defective' inhabitants. Who they were and if they stayed in the torus, as opposed to being booted off and incarcerated in some secure unit on Earth, was anyone's guess.

But those people, if they existed in that bubble of elite perfection, were largely harmless. If they were to become dangerous, Talar supposed, there would be more than enough security to neutralize them. Here on Earth, even with Elysian-level security, she felt horribly like fair game, not just to the possibly dangerous, but to all the violent, deviant, murderous wrongdoers the world had to offer. All of them, bound up in one person... one person, to whom she felt as attracted as she was repulsed. It was as irrational as that monster from another dimension materializing under her bed, of course, but it refused to leave.

Closing the curtains at night was something Talar had never done, and here was no exception. At 0449 hours, dawn was just around the corner, the sky beginning to glow with the resplendent promise of a new day. Yet, the diffusing darkness seemed to offer her no additional safety. It might as well be the dead of night. Her foot hung there, as if truly paralyzed, hovering precariously above what might as well be a floor of razor-sharp spikes, or a sheer drop into the bowels of hell itself, or indeed a portal. Rendered utterly indecisive in the grip of fear, she was screaming at herself to move her foot before it was too late, yet movement seemed impossible. Then there was that other part of her which straddled that blurred border between brave and stupid, which pushed her to endeavor, to just hold still one more moment, two more moments, another few moments, to see how long she could stand up to her fear. She had to confront her fear, let it know that it didn't control her, that she could defy it even if the feeling itself never properly dissipated.

Just another moment, she could do it. But then, the moment after that could be the one those fingers – warm and alive, not chill and skeletal – wrapped around her prone ankle, either to drag her down, or to use her as leverage to pull out, crawl out, from the portal. And what would crawl out, if indeed it did crawl out and onto her floor, would be more monstrous, more petrifying than anything conjored in the darkest depths of a nightmare. It wouldn't be slimy, or with glowing red eyes, skin blacker than a black hole, and the eerie and grotesque husk of a ghoulish voice. It would be 5'11 and 170lbs of sinewy muscle, bone, blood, and strength. It would have white teeth, hawkish features, pupils for irises, and there would be metal laid into parts of its face and body.; metal that she would want to trace with her fingertips to see if it was as warm and inviting as the skin into which it was grafted. And it would utter a low, venomous cackle, making fun of her for being the stupid hormonal creature that she was... and then it would tell her it knew what she had done two nights ago in the bath, and what she had been tempted to do mere hours ago, for the second night in a row. It might even ask her if _that part_ of her was-

Her foot shot away from the edge, like the kickback from a powerful firearm she had tested in the simulation booths. It thwacked into her left shin so forcefully that she winced. Only then did she notice where her right hand lay, and the coating of slickness on her fingertips, and the fear took on a whole new guise. She hadn't climaxed, but she was warmed up sure enough. If she had dreamed about anyone in a sexual capacity, though, she didn't remember it.

Maybe it was a female version of morning wood; a simple biological function unrelated to genuine desire or need?

_When have you ever had female morning wood before?_

_It's gotta start somewhere._

_Yeah – in your teens._

_So I'm a late bloomer. So what?_

Maybe she was just sexually frustrated after her longest dry spell since losing her virginity at age 15, which, when in the company of a new bunch of men so much more sexually forward than the sterile nature of those at her previous workplace, was getting to her? That was normal, wasn't it? That was natural.

_Come on, Tal, we're passed that._

_Go away._

_You know, he was right: the longer you try and delude yourself, the worse it'll be when you have to accept the truth._

_Delude myself? About what? And who says I'm ever going to have to accept any 'truth'?_

_Your funeral, deary._

But perhaps the dissenting voice had a point? Perhaps even Kruger had a point? Maybe she would feel better if she did confront him; that was, allow him into her head whilst she pleasured herself, rather than fighting him? In this instance, what if the truth really could set her free? Just admit it, accept it, enjoy it, and then he might very well be out of her system. If her dreams and fears were subject to Freudian interpretation, she reckoned, wouldn't it reveal that they were merely a manifestation of inner conflict, of denial, of repressed desire?

_Yeah, but didn't Freud apply that theory to everything, apparently?_

Wasn't it still worth a shot, though? She obviously needed the release, if only physically.

No. It was all nonsense; Freud, the dissenting voice, even her own body. Or if it wasn't, she didn't want to confront it just yet, truth setting her free or not. This was something for which she would have to be thoroughly ready. Besides, if she simply surrendered to her every whim, impulse and desire, she would be no better than an animal. Self restraint and self control were virtues that she couldn't let slide simply because the basest part of her argued otherwise. If she lost her composure then it wouldn't be long before her self respect followed.

She moved her right hand to her side before it took the choice away from her. So what if she was horny? It would pass. It seemed unlikely she would be getting any more sleep that morning, so she could drink some coffee, fire off a few emails regarding the impromptu house warming next weekend, and then watch Earth TV whilst eating breakfast and planning the rest of the day. And in the evening, she would truss herself up and return to the club, just to see what Ramanauskas, and shortly after, Kruger, were on about. That she chose to prettify herself, that she went at all, didn't necessitate a lengthy stay.

_Plenty to occupy your mind...right?_

What worried her then, was the knowledge that, barely more than a week ago, there would have been no "right" tagged onto the end of the sentence.


	11. COSMIC GATE - Ultra Curve

**AN**

Let's just imagine today's fashion houses all still exist in 2144, 'kay?

* * *

**CHAPTER 11**

_Plenty to occupy your mind...right?_

Yesterday, after having taken him aside, Ramanauskas had effectively confirmed Talar's suspicions. That today was a busy one transpired to be a coincidence; but, he had explained, surprised at her ignorance, tomorrow happened to be the monthly Games Night, which took place in the rooms behind the hitherto mysterious door. Rooms, plural. Games Night had originally been conceived as an office party of sorts, he said he had been told, to provide a sense of community within the organization and encourage the assets' competitive streak but without the financial incentive. However, human nature had won out, and it had quickly turned into primarily a gambling event, which the upper echelons of the Bureau had observed with gusto, routinely and brazenly placing bets of their own. Groups of them would even travel over to witness the proceedings first hand. That as good as explained Lang's awkwardness; he probably wasn't a betting man, and didn't favor that quality in others, least of all when it was in the name of an organization he worked for.

Ramanauskas had been attending Games Night since his conscription, he had said. It came as no surprise to Talar that he excelled at strategic board games, holding the title of chess, and Risk, champion, since his first participation; or so he claimed. He had been keen to know if Talar would attend, and she had said that she would, if only to watch.

She had fought to keep her pace and glance steady upon returning to the counter; not to detour over to where Kruger sat, or even glance in his direction, lest the temptation to take him up on his offer overcame her. If she were to take him up on his offer and touch him, and that touch were to affect him in the obvious way, she wasn't sure if she could count on her willpower to hold herself back. She hadn't touched a nice firm, full cock since her split from Sudir, and the need was beginning to scrape at her. She had an inkling that Kruger wasn't lying about his manhood; he would have no reason to. Had his masculinity been smaller than average, someone like him would always have an arsenal of concessionary phrases ready to hand; not the size of the wave but the motion of the ocean, etc. Furthermore, she also had an inkling that someone like him wasn't the type to make empty threats, or promises. Anything he said, he could and would back up.

Stepping back behind the bar, and making for the door, she faltered at the very first hurdle – a deceptively benign-sounding call of "Ms. Sampson?" to her back. Him, of course. She should have known he wouldn't have let her leave the room without some choice parting words. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself for whatever was coming, and turned around.

"Yes, Agent Kruger?" she had replied with impatience-tinged civility. He was wearing that inscrutable expression again, rendering her utterly lost for what to expect next. His friends were no longer beside him.

"So, you coming to Games Night?"

He had said it as if it were a mere pleasantry, without the expectant glee of someone with any vested interest. What worried her then was that she had concurrently realized what he was doing, and that it had achieved the desired effect; because, hadn't she felt ever so slightly angered that he didn't seem overtly eager to possibly see her tomorrow? Which, of course, was not merely a stupid reaction to such a basic manipulatory technique, but also a cause for concern. It was one thing to feel an attraction to him; another entirely to want that attraction reciprocated. For crying out loud, she had Botha as good as in the bag; why should she care about anyone else? She let that particular question go unanswered.

"I might as well," she had replied in a noncommittal tone. "It sounds quite interesting."

Speedily, she had considered whether it would have been better to answer him with something snippy, something to try and get a rise out of him, such as "That's not your concern" but decided it sounded too uptight. He had probably wanted a reaction like that. Civility was mostly always the right call in situations such as this. If only she could remember it every time...

"Hmmh," he had murmured, with an undemonstrative nod, expression still unreadable. A few seconds' pause had followed, and then: "Could you get me a drink?"

"Sorry?" Talar had replied, too slow this time to conceal her obvious confusion.

He had repeated the sentence.

"I heard you," she had said. "But why are you asking me, _again_? Remember yesterday?"

He had persisted, his face unchanging, "Just a small bottle of water. You don't even have to pour it into a glass or add ice and lemon. And I'll pay you from my digi-credit."

"I'm not a bartender, Agent Kruger."

"One small bottle of water is all I'm asking."

"And I'm asking you, why?"

"Because I'm feeling a little dehydrated."

"Please don't dodge the question."

"But I _am_ feeling dehydrated."

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"Alcohol dehydrates you. Anyone with half a brain knows that."

"Then ask the droids."

"I don't want to ask the droids."

"I already told you I'm not a bartender."

"No, but you _do_ care about your subordinates' wellbeing."

"Actually that's neither here nor there."

"Really?"

"Listen, Agent Kruger," she had said, betraying the exasperation she knew she should have fought to keep hidden, "I get it. You like to joke around. That's fine. But I'm supposed to be getting back to work, so if you'll excuse me-"

"Just. One. Drink."

She had sighed. Asking why again would likely only yield the same runaround responses. Time to try a different tack. "I don't think I'm even allowed to. Like I said yesterday, if I wanted to play bartender I'd have to fill out another form, or ten."

He'd given a dismissive laugh. "You'll be fine. So long as payment changes hands, the Bureau isn't going to fuss over a minor breach of protocol. They didn't always use to have droids here, you know. They had human bartenders, and the customers just used digi-credit, scanned the bottles themselves and it went direct to the club's account. You could say I'm feeling nostalgic for those days."

Well, that didn't _not_ make sense; Talar had noticed, when inspecting the drinks two days ago, that all bore their original barcode, and a second one with the CCB logo on it. She had assumed the latter functioned only as a stamp of ownership, but it also seemed perfectly likely that it served other purposes.

Talar had paused, exhaling weightily. She could have ended it there, said a firm "sorry, but I'd rather not risk it" and left; but she didn't. Affronted at his gall though she was – after all, the man was persuading her to possibly endanger herself just for his sake, probably to see how easily he could manipulate her - she had found herself strangely excited by the prospect of circumventing the rules.

_And you're allowing yourself to play right into his hands, just like that? Don't you realize that if you give in so easily now, he'll do it again, and again, until you really do get into trouble?_

_This is hardly a major request. Anything bigger and I can refuse._

_That's what they all say, isn't it? I can quit any time I want. Guaranteed, you do this and he'll ask for more and more, and you'll do it because you let him have power over you._

_Not necessarily. _

_Just say no. On principle. You're the one in authority here, and he'll damn well exploit you if you don't behave like it. _

_What's wrong with giving him the benefit of the doubt?_

_Him? The benefit of the doubt? Would you go swimming with great white sharks and just give them the benefit of the doubt not to eat you?_

_Just the once. That's all I'll do._

_Do you actually want to let him manipulate you? Subjugate you? You think that'll make you more attractive to him?_

_Well, if anyone's going to make a woman want to submit, it's-_

Uncomfortable, she shut off the inner voices. She didn't have time to debate with herself over the deeper psychological ramifications of fulfilling Kruger's request.

With another sigh, she had continued, "What's in it for me if I do?"

Ever impartial, the man had replied, "Name your price."

She had pondered for a moment, coming up with nothing. Brusquely, she had said, "Just don't ask me for any such favors again." However, for fear of revealing her ignorance, she had stopped short of "if I get into trouble for this, it'll be on your head too". Whether or not he got any rap – and she didn't know if he even would - would be irrelevant; as the one in authority, it was she who should know better in the first place. Perhaps, though, she could just hope that Yasmin would be able to just let it slide anyway. As manager of the CCTV control room, Yasmin had the final say on reporting everything captured on the Bureau's camera networks... unless of course her staffers happened to mutiny. Unless they were of the utmost stiffly conventional, though, it seemed unlikely they would revolt over such a minor infraction. Until she got home and could send a personal email to her friend, however – because, to Talar's knowledge, personal email accounts were not monitored - hoping was all she could do.

"Done," Kruger had affirmed.

Talar could have still stopped then. She could have still said no.

But she didn't, and she hadn't allowed herself to properly contemplate why. Neither had she allowed herself to ponder his questionable sincerity.

She had gotten him the drink.

"This is the first and last time," she had said sternly as she handed him the unopened bottle of still mineral water. "Is that clear?"

"Crystal clear, Ma'am," the wolfish man had replied, giving a reverent nod. "And thank you." He had fished a 5x3cm DNA-locked digi-credit card from the pocket of his fatigue trousers, briskly swiping it over the barcode beneath the CCB logo on the bottle.

"False gratitude doesn't suit you."

"Who says it's false?" he had protested coolly. "Am I not allowed to thank you for _your_ gratitude?"

She scowled inwardly, although it was at much at herself for having given into him as it was him for putting her up to it.

Sighing once more, she had finished with a mildly sarcastic, "In that case, you're welcome."

_I hope you're happy now, idiot. Both of you._

And then, with a mechanical smile, she had promptly turned and left, walking away with as much resolution as she could muster.

* * *

By 0530, Talar had finished her emails, washed her hair, and was lounging towel-clad on the ivory colored lazytime sofa and watching the news channel, whilst sipping her usual calorific concoction of cream and sugar avec coffee. Her mother never failed to snipe at her about the amount of calories she would save, and the weight she would lose, if she just took her coffee with milk and artificial sweetener instead. Talar never listened; she already forced herself into uncomfortable clothes and shoes, spent tiresome hours applying makeup and styling her hair, and even more tiresome hours languishing in a job that was far overqualified for amongst colleagues with whom she had nothing in common. And shaving was a bitch; Armenian genes, it seemed, were resistant even to electrolysis hair removal, meaning that she had to keep on getting herself zapped every week as opposed to every few months like mostly every other female. The zapping always left her skin horrendously itchy for at least a day afterwards; a phenomena exclusive to her and her alone, it would seem.

Thus, she didn't see the point in restricting her enjoyment elsewhere. So what if it made for a little extra padding, none of which went to her breasts? Unlike the long-limbed waifs around her at the Bureau, she had always been stocky, and body type wasn't something that could be radically changed. Unspectacular though she considered her appearance, she felt a certain pride in saving something of herself, rather than following society's rules to the letter, even if her difference did dampen her spirits every so often.

Fingertips drumming idly against the warm, glazed ceramic mug, she wondered if now was a good time to text Botha. That he hadn't mentioned Games Night to her the day before yesterday may have meant he had no intention of attending; or he may have forgot. Perhaps she was overthinking it. Be that as it may, at least now she had a legitimate reason of contacting him early, not forgetting next week's house warming party either. So, two reasons. She picked up her phone from the Lucite coffee table, pulled up Botha's number, and said to the screen "convert talk to text". A message window appeared, with the text 'ready' in the center and a small white dot pulsing directly below it. Earth news babbled unobtrusively in the background – some story about the booming French economy - as she thought over what to say. Best to keep it simple, on the friendly side of neutral.

"Record," she said sharply, watching the 'ready' vanish and the white dot turn to a red one. "Hi Botha, hope all is well with you." The spoken words appeared on the screen in realtime. "My house warming party is next Saturday at 20:00. Gifts not necessary. And if you're coming to Games Night tonight, maybe I'll see you there? I'm going to check it out at about 21:00. Not sure how long I'll stay. Anyway, let me know. Bye for now, Talar. End recording. Send."

The text 'message sent' flashed up, fading out a moment later.

Talar put the phone back on the transparent table. She had to admit, the Lucite furniture both in the club and here wasn't without its appeal. In the club it blended perfectly with the super modern design, and here, it added to the illusion of spaciousness.

_Well played, CCB interior designers._

On the news, the female anchor, looking as preened as a CCB employee, was now talking about the ongoing civil unrest in Liberia. Talar wondered if and when Botha – and obviously Kruger and his chums – would reprise their mission there; whatever that mission was. Probably something involving blowing people up. At home, Earth news was something she would always tune into when given the chance. It had always fascinated her to see what the 'old world' was like, even if that was a view not shared by most others that she was aware of. There were no restrictions as to what television channels and websites Elysians could access on the torus, or propaganda to cleverly persuade them away from anything transmitted from Earth. This was the Free World, after all, and information – knowledge – was everyone's right. At least, to a certain extent; the Elysian authorities were largely off limits. Yet, it wouldn't have surprised Talar in the slightest if they functioned absolutely in the open, and no civilian would take even an iota of interest. From what she had gathered, most people were astoundingly apathetic regarding what their rulers, movers and shakers got up to. Life was good for them, so why should they question it?

Furthermore, where did questioning authority ever get anyone? Dead or imprisoned, mostly, according to Earth news. You couldn't beat the system, let alone do so and expect to live; unless of course you happened to be Osvaldas Ramanauskas. With the CCB working with both the Elysian and Earth governments, Talar wondered how it felt for him, operating alongside an authority he had succeeded in humiliating. That was, if he harbored any feelings about it at all. Maybe she would ask him some time, off the record.

Her phone beeped, startling her.

_Please be Botha,_ she prayed, a mixture of excitement and anxiety coursing through her, although she wasn't entirely sure why. It was hardly likely to be anyone else at this hour. Every cell phone purchased in Elysium was contracted to Armadyne's network provider, Air, which conveniently also happened to be the leading network provider on Earth. Although the quality of reception during phone calls could vary greatly – hence why all Elysian homes, and Talar's Earth home, were equipped with the ever trusty, home-tethered radio phone - texts flew between the space station and the planet constantly. However, Talar herself was yet to use her cell phone for any communication since having moved, all of her contacts preferring email or radio phone.

Therefore, that narrowed it down to Botha, or some random announcement from Air.

She swiped the handset from the table, and tapped the screen.

* * *

By the time Talar arrived at the warehouse at just gone 21:00, the party was well underway. Chock full of luxury aircars, Fulgar shuttles, and two Ravens – to which her heart had given a painful jolt – the barely illuminated vehicle park was already approaching full capacity. She had slotted in between a black Lexus aircar and a midnight blue Lamborghini Stellar Fulgar shuttle, recalling having seen the Lamborghini in the CCB carpark; one of the handful of shuttles amongst the plethora of aircars. The license plate read '1LOVE', which hardly seemed fitting of Heidi Bryant, or Delacourt – it seemed highly unlikely any of them harbored a secret flower child beneath either of their snooty exteriors. Although, to be fair, appearances could be deceptive. But whoever used the Lamborghini as their primary means of transport was likely a frequent interstellar commuter, which had to be the higher echelons of the Bureau, or Lang.

After a non-eventful day of touring the Nevada wilderness in her shuttle, and whittling away several hours in the expansive Losee Road Artificial Ocean – a vacation and day visit resort featuring the world's third largest swimming pool, totaling 30 acres of sea water imported from the Pacific ocean - Talar had been afforded ample time to go all out on her appearance that evening. Anywhere other than her workplace, and amongst anyone else but her colleagues, she would have been perfectly content showing up in her usual off-duty casual ensemble of a maxi dress and flat sandals or ballet pumps, with loosely-braided hair and next to no makeup. At a CCB event, however, it went without saying that she would be expected to uphold the same ludicrously high standard as that of her workplace; higher, in fact, given that it was an event as opposed to a working day.

To that end, there she stood at the entrance to the warehouse, clad in a Lanvin one-shoulder lamé gold twill dress, and Gianvito Rossi liquid-gold patent leather pumps, with a black, Alexander McQueen sphere box clutch bag to accessorize. Whereas the McQueen bag was an original 2014 issue, bough at an antique auction, both items of clothing happened to be hot off the shelves from their respective outlets the week prior to her departure. Small feet were a blessing, but clothing-wise, things weren't always so easy. Unlike many of her formal clothes, the Lanvin dress hadn't required modification from the factory to fit her more 'corpulent' form; although, as with many plus-size versions, it had still cost extra. Ever resistant to anyone above a US size 4, most of the fashion houses refused to dispense with adding surcharges to garments for any woman who had the nerve or misfortune to exceed svelte proportions. Nevertheless, it was what it was, which wasn't worth getting riled up over. If the dress flattered – and the Lanvin garment, whose side ruching could flatter any form, did - then she felt thankful.

Her hair hung in loose waves, whilst makeup-wise she had gone with a gold and brown smoky eye, nude lips, minimal bronzer blush, and high-gloss black nails. One debatable benefit of working for the Bureau was that, unless you had a bevy of personal stylists on hand in your home, it necessitated you to learn beauty skills to rival that of professionals. Tedious though it was to her, Talar had to admit the results gave her confidence a boost.

Botha wouldn't be turning up tonight, he had said at just gone midday. He would be busy in Sydney, Australia, helping a fellow agent move home. To Talar's relief, he was on for the party next Saturday, though.

_Damn Air, texting me at five fucking thirty in the goddamn morning,_ she thought, keying in the warehouse's entry code.


	12. GARETH EMERY – Tokyo

**CHAPTER 12**

"Ms. Sampson!" came a high-pitched voice from somewhere behind her, just as the warehouse door opened. Talar turned to see Kansas Cohen emerging from the Lamborghini; there was that particular mystery solved, then. Clad in what looked in the dim light like a coral-colored bandage dress, she seamlessly weaved her way between the parked vehicles, toward Talar. The statuesque blonde 25-year-old, from the upper middle strata of the CCB control room, was one of those people who seemed to know, and associate with, everyone; one of those social chameleons who could adapt to any and every situation and effortlessly endear herself to whoever she met. In other words, a consummate professional in social manipulation. Talar had come into contact with Cohen on several occasions, all of which left her feeling more than a little uneasy. She was _too_ amicable, too easygoing, like that false sense of security that con artists so skillfully lulled victims into before striking. Her ability to do this was no doubt what had gotten her far.

What Cohen hoped to accomplish by winning Talar over, the latter wasn't entirely sure, and now it seemed more questionable than ever. No-one ever called after Talar, asking her to wait; not to chat, not to bring her something she had left behind. Not even to halt elevator doors for them. Such was the contrariety between Talar and the majority of her colleagues, that many of them actively avoided sharing the same space as her, as if her 'short, fat' qualities bore contagious germs.

Cohen at least adhered to professional cordiality during work hours; but off record she had no reason to behave with anything beyond basic civility. Perhaps she had been given a directive, right from the IceMare, to spy on their now Earth-stationed staffer? The Bureau had gone all out with the physical security of the club; on that basis it didn't seem unreasonable that they might take measures with intelligence, too. You could never be too careful, right? But, although that itself didn't worry Talar, the prospect of having Cohen watching her the entire night certainly put a dampener on things. And if Heidi Bryant happened to be in attendance...

Talar drew a deep breath. She couldn't make her excuses and run off - there was nowhere to run _to_; and even if she entered the warehouse at that very moment, Cohen would be mere seconds behind. There was no choice but to tolerate the woman.

She forced a perfunctory smile, replying brightly through teeth she yearned to clench, "Hello, Ms. Cohen. What a surprise to see _you_ here."

"Kansas, please," the blonde replied with a warm smile that reached her ice-blue eyes, coming to a stop just outside of Talar's personal space; a distance that most people would have found 'safe'. Talar wasn't most people. She wasn't sure whether her assailant could sense her unease; or that, if she could, it would give her the advantage on Talar. One thing she was sure of, however, was that dwelling on it was hardly going to produce a solution. She couldn't out-con a con-woman.

"Talar," Talar said, mimicking the smile.

"And I'm always here for these. I'm-"

The open door interrupted her with a loud beep, reminding Talar of her idleness.

"Sorry, I-" Talar began, tilting her head toward the warehouse interior.

The blonde woman gave an understanding gesture. "Hey, no problem. Just make you sure you wait for me on the other side. Otherwise I'll report you to Delacourt for bad manners." She winked.

Talar forced a chuckle, although her paranoia radar was going berzerk; that Kansas had posed it as a joke only made Talar all the more wary. The best double bluffs were pulled under the guise of harmless jokes. She shoved aside the possibility that she may have been slightly overreacting in her suspicions; she couldn't allow herself to trust sweet little Kansas as far as she could _flick_ her, let alone throw her. So, she waited on the other side, wishing she could forcibly slow the speed of time itself in order to gather her composure that fraction more, steady herself. But she couldn't, and seconds later, there her new 'friend' was, greeting her with another winning smile..

All things considered, the journey to the club proper didn't go too badly. Maybe sensing Talar's disquiet, Kansas, who had all but abandoned any formality, provided most of the conversation, as if to put the shorter woman at ease. It turned out she had a legitimate reason – or cover, Talar suspected - to be here; she had been playing dealer on the blackjack table for the last five years. She was late tonight, though, and would have to negotiate her dealership with Spencer Aoki from Homeland Security, who, although a nice guy, took stepping in for his colleagues rather too seriously. She went on to explain that Games Night consisted of ten games - baccarat chemin-de-fer; backgammon; blackjack; chess; craps; pai gao (dominoes); pai gow poker; seven card stud poker; Texas hold'em poker; and risk – and that the 'house' positions was primarily staffed by CCB employees. She had omitted whether Heidi Bryant was one of them.

They entered the club to a capture of Germany's Bavarian landmark, the Neuschwanstein Castle, emerging from an ephemeral cloud of early morning autumnal mist. The fairytale scene clashed starkly with the song playing at that particular moment, which sounded less like music and more like a band all having seizures at once. Talar recalled hearing something like it in Music History Studies; free jazz, they called it. Hearing it for the first time back then, she had no clue how it could have appealed to anyone; her opinion hadn't changed now. It sounded like the jazz form of screamo metal.

Save for two suited, dark-haired male agents ordering drinks from bar, the lounge was empty. Talar didn't recognize the men from the back, but she didn't stop to survey them. Neither did they seem to notice her.

"There are only two people who'd listen to that kind of rubbish," whispered Kansas, which reminded Talar that she needed to work on her poker face, as her dislike must have been glaringly obvious, "the Fratelli twins."

That jogged Talar's memory. The Fratelli twins: #88 and #89 on the infamous List. Ex drug barons and serial rapists, now employed as gang infiltrators in New York and New Jersey. Talar had no clue what interest the CCB held in the Mafia; she wasn't sure she even wanted to know. Perhaps the Fratellis sourced the best cocaine for them, or the best Cuban cigars? The organization wasn't above channeling some of its abundant financial resources into zones less pressing than protecting their habitat.

"I've only seen them on file," replied Talar. "They haven't turned up here."

Rather than cracking a joke at her underling's expense - "yeah, in all the 4 days of you working here" - Kansas simply said, "They generally don't, far as I'm aware. Keep themselves to themselves most of the time, apparently."

Talar could only hope they would keep their distance from her, too. The last thing she needed was an attraction to another deviant; or two.

The wide, hitherto mysterious doorway in the left side wall stood open, the door recessed into its slot. A tide of music and voices drifted out into the lounge, where they diffused into the chaotic mess that called itself free jazz. Talar followed her new 'buddy' through the doorway and into the fabled Games Room, and free jazz gave way to a comparatively anodyne classical ensemble.

The place was huge - twice the size of the lounge, with a color scheme and décor not radically different than that of the club's other rooms. Glassy white, underlit floor; paneled, but with panels so undefined that they appeared to merge into one glowing, crystalline sea of light. Television screens for walls, projecting a fixed display of Elysium's entertainment district at night. The deepest indigo-blue of the night sky merged seamlessly into the pitch black of the fake skylight, from which a canopy of stars glittered; and amidst those stars, scattered LED lights for planets.

Through the packed space, she glimpsed Lucite tables of various shapes, sizes and functions, seemingly crafted from the color of the night sky itself, placed in a scatter formation at mathematically precise intervals. Eliptical; semi-circular; rectangular; six seaters; seven seaters; two seaters; four seaters; and one huge, bulky rectangle with rounded edges, that looked out of place with the slim and streamlined aesthetic of its counterparts and surroundings. Slender, angular chairs of matching material and varying heights, most of which were now occupied, sat around the tables, and a line of spare chairs skirted the wall behind her.

"Well, this is my stop," Kansas announced, pointing towards a table in the center of the room, which was indeed staffed by the very recognizable personage of Spencer Aoki. "There's one seat free if you want to observe?"

Talar politely declined. Kansas bid her farewell and sauntered off, carrying herself with fluid ease atop perilously high, jeweled stilettos. Thank Lordy.

No heads lifted or turned to glance at the newcomer who remained inert, affording Talar a vantage point to scan the crowd without consequence. She spied Ramanauskas, facing her, on the table second from the right, absorbed in an unfamiliar looking two-player game with one of the male agents who had greeted him on the day of his forfeit. The chess table, diagonally to the left, sat unoccupied, perhaps awaiting the Fratellis. She continued scanning, and through the sea of mostly anonymous faces, found her quarry. At an eliptical table on the far left, flanked by two of his men, sat her lupine foe, clad in an uncharacteristically sharp charcoal suit. Tie absent. Suit jacket undone, as per the rules of suit fashion. Shirt open the top few buttons, exposing the hint of something metallic which, at that distance, was indecipherable. His men, too – the bald pilot and the rugby player – looked the part. Immersed in the game, which appeared to be some form of poker, the trio appeared oblivious to her.

For now.

That was good enough. It had to be.

She decided to take a look around, after which she would ask Ramanauskas if he minded her sitting in on his game. She certainly didn't plan on pulling up a chair at one of the non-game tables, where her colleagues sat in their little islands of exclusivity, even though Heidi Bryant did not appear to be amongst them.

So she began walking leisurely from table to table, taking in what was, to her, the novelty of these new surroundings. Most of the participants and spectators failed to notice her; and those who did acknowledged her with a mere tilt of the head. Having never set foot in a casino before, or even played a board game save Scrabble, all but the chess and Risk tables looked largely indecipherable... the latter of which happened to be occupied by Kruger's gunner Drake, and Khumalo, equally well turned out in smart casual attire. She noted Mahlangu, in a tan suit, standing at the bulky table amidst a cheering, ten strong crowd on one side, and three Bureau guys on the other. Only he and two others appeared to be playing, however, and Talar recognized the lanky blond man to his immediate right as someone from the control room; Jaarko something or other. Some Scandinavian name. He held a long, thin white stick, curved at one end - a cane of sorts.

Her heart reiterated its presence as she finally approached Kruger; the table she had deliberately chosen to inspect last. While in her line of vision, he was yet to make eye contact with her. She wondered, though, if he had seen her when her back was turned as she circled the other tables. Now, however, there was nowhere else to go, and that same heady mixture of anxiety and nervous excitement had already seized control of her system, compelling her onward. Although she wanted to pause and take a deep breath, in the hope of trying to gather herself together, prepare herself for whatever awaited her, she knew only too well just how futile that would be. If there was ever a person you couldn't prepare yourself for, it was him.

And then, five meters away, he saw her; looked up from his hand of cards and straight into her eyes, as if missile directed. Just a cool, momentary flicker of contact, a flash of pure blackness, but enough to make the state of play quite clear. It was all Talar could do not to halt, stunned, and gulp. He sensed her, he knew her, and he could take her down, without a doubt.

Medicated or otherwise, it shouldn't be possible for a human to have no irises at all. It transgressed the laws of physiology.

Nevertheless, she continued towards him, although the rest of the room seemed to swim around her, merge into a surreal collage of light and dark, glossy and matte, to the soundtrack of soporific white noise. Her heart fluttered like a caged bird desperate to escape, and for a terrifying moment she felt unsteady on her feet, foreseeing a tumble, as if drunk or drugged. Mercifully, however, she managed to stay upright. Small victories.

* * *

21:49.

A view from the terracotta-colored, stone and branch rubbled shore of Poland's Morskie Oko in the Tatra mountains upon a sunny summer day. His game of backgammon finished – he had won - Ramanauskas joined Talar by the bar, where they sat sipping vodka and Coke, after having consumed several shots. They were two of only eight people in the room. The gangly Lithuanian was surprisingly well turned out; a black suit-jacket, plain white t-shirt, navy blue jeans, and denim-upholstered sneakers. But it was his necklace that caught Talar's eye; an antique-looking coin silver pocket watch on fine a chain that reached to the middle of his chest.

He noted her interest. "This? It's an Elgin railroad watch, circa 1893." He leaned in closer, lowering his voice to an almost inaudible whisper, and continued, "I stole it from an antique collector. Some loaded Elysian asshole who owns a mansion full of those things, right here on Earth, in Río de Janeiro. I have connections, you see."

Although that wasn't what she had expected to hear, least of all straight away, Talar eyed him with dubious suspicion rather than shock. The facetious glimmer in his gray eyes gave him away; he was an even worse liar than her... or he was pretending to be.

The young man chuckled. "Nah, I'm not the thieving type. Got it a few years back from some of the other agents. Birthday gift. I'm fascinated with antique gadgetry, and Agent Nevrakis – you know him?-"

"I've seen him in the database. But that thing is vast."

"He's the one I was playing backgammon with."

"Right."

"He found this thing-" he tapped the watch, "-two years ago in a flea market in Paris. The Marche Aux Puces. Have you heard of it?"

Talar shook her head.

"Biggest flea market in the world and an antique collector's dream. Apparently it's a huge hit with Elysians, so Nevrakis says."

"Apparently? I take it he's never been to any sort of antique dealers before."

Ramansaukas gave a half hearted laugh. "Yeah. Half the world's most famous antiques now reside in a space station. I'm wondering when they're gonna uproot the Louvre and put it there."

"Actually that's not a bad idea. We're the highest tech place in the universe; because we're so new, so advanced, we love to covet the past. Yet, the one thing we lack up there is a museum, so everyone goes crazy trying to create museums of their own, buying half the world's finest material accomplishments. They've got the space for something like the Louvre, so why not?"

Her conversational partner nodded. "Most antiquities end up in Elysian hands; and I say that objectively. But, you know, I wonder how this watch ended up in that flea market. Most jewelry is passed down through the family. It could have been important to someone, once upon a time. I can't help but wonder if they had to part with it under...upsetting circumstances. I'm fortunate – I got spotted by the CCB-"

"Spotted, eh?" Talar jested.

"Ah, yeah. Hah. Anyway, that was my way out, and I'll be forever grateful. But others aren't so lucky. Money's so tight they can't even afford to hold onto things just for sentimental value."

Talar nodded. Such a disclosure didn't surprise her, coming from someone like Ramanauskas. Neither did his remaining an Earthling sympathizer. What did, though, was talking with such bracing candor in earshot of the cameras. Perhaps this was commonplace for him, and the authorities simply accepted it as par the course of employing a rebel? Or perhaps _he_, as opposed to Kansas Cohen, was the one sent to spy on her, test her commitment and loyalty to the organization, and ultimately determine whether or not she would be quietly disposed of? What was the old adage: just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you? He had managed to draw her into a conversation concerning the inequality of wealthy vs poor with nary a hitch. The watch was the bait, and she had fallen for it.

_Oh come on. That's just silly._

And it _was_ silly, she resolved. Ever since meeting – hell, ever since finding out about – Agent Kruger, her paranoid tendencies had begun to spin out of control. She would have to make sure to keep them in check, lest she end up losing her mind and going around taking apart her house, her office, for spying devices.

With her back to the door, and with the music loud enough to conceal the sound of footsteps, Talar didn't notice the figure approaching her from behind. Ramanauskas, however, did.

"Looks like someone else wants to talk to you," he said, nodding to a space behind her back.

Rather than swiveling around to see, Talar stayed put, a wave of vertigo washing over her. She knew who it was, and whether she was excited or anxious, thrilled or terrified, she couldn't bring herself to move.

"Are you OK?" Ramanauskas asked, looking slightly concerned.

Talar forced a laugh. "Yeah, I- I'm fine. I just felt a bit dizzy for a moment. I think the vodka's gone to my head a little quicker than usual. I'll order some water."

"Well, if there's anything I can do to help?"

She gave him a heartfelt smile. "Thanks. But I'll be fine. Don't worry."

"OK," he replied, with some reservation to a smile of his own. He rubbed his hands together, then continued affirmatively, "Right. I'll...errr... I'll be at the chess board, if you want to spectate?"

"Sure," she said, her expression hopeful. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

The Lithuanian hopped down from the stool and made to leave. From behind her, Talar heard him exchange surprisingly natural sounding pleasantries with her soon to be new conversational partner.

"Ozzie, boet! Good to see you, my man."

Unmistakable anywhere, that voice.

"You too, Krugez, man. You're out early?"

Kruger addressing Ramanauskas by a nickname wasn't so surprising – in most situations it seemed likely the intimidating South African called the shots - but the younger man calling _him_ by one? That had to mean that these two were on good terms, perhaps even _friends_?

"Fucking Hirsch, man. I was that close – that fucking close - and he swoops in and obliterates me."

"Hirsch? Really?"

"Boet, he's upped his game like you wouldn't believe. All credit to the oke; when he applies himself he's just... For once I'm just fucking speechless."

Earlier on, Talar had merely circled his table once, making sure to avoid further eye contact with him, and then had gone to sit with Ramanauskas. It had then become an internal struggle to appear fixated on a game she had not even the faintest idea of how to play, and turning her head to see if she could, per chance, glimpse the onyx-eyed lupine glancing in her direction. She had won, although only through dogged determination.

By the time the two men parted ways, she noticed the photo: a daytime view from over a tree-packed slope that lead to the tightly winding path of Serbia's Uvac river canyon.

Seconds later, her assailant slid into the space between her and the stool Ramanauskas had just vacated, causing Talar's heart to kick up a gear. Tonight was the cleanest, smartest she had seen him yet. The charcoal suit, now buttoned just above the navel, fit his contours like the expertly tailored piece of art that it was - single breasted, narrow on the shoulders, cinched at the waist, slim at the legs; at once flattering and boastful. A white, elaborately folded handkerchief sat peeking out from his breast pocket. And from the open top three buttons of his crisp white shirt, she could now see that the silver looking anomalies were in fact metal grafts laid into his flesh – the skele steel exo grafts Lang had mentioned. The only thing she couldn't sneak a glance at without it being painfully obvious were his shoes, although it seemed a safe bet they would be suitably formal, too.

His usually shaggy mane looked fresh out of the salon, gleaming silky and squeaky clean in the lights, with side swept bangs obscuring the grafts above his temples. It seemed that even his imposing beard had undergone a fractional trim. And scent wise he had traded the ashtray pores, sweat, dust and general dirt, for a delectable cologne - some fragrantly spicy combination of cedar wood, patchouli and bergamot, with peppery floral hints, much like the cologne Sadir often favored. But on Sudir, loathe as she was to admit it, the fragrance wore him; he was often like a bottle of fragrance with a man – albeit a very good looking one – along for the ride. Kruger, however, made it abundantly clear who was wearing who; Talar guessed it would be drastically unlike him to do otherwise.

"Enjoying it so far?" he asked, looking uncharacteristically guileless.

Instead of pretending to be surprised at his overture, she replied blandly, "Never been one for gambling, so it's all new to me."

"But are you _enjoying_ it?" he probed, his gruff voice taking a turn for the sultry, and with the barest glint of mischief playing upon his hawkish features.

Best to give him a direct answer, she thought, lest he find another reason to toy with her.

Her brown eyes met his iris-less ones – eyes that she doubted she would ever feel entirely comfortable being locked to - and she continued, "I'm not saying I'm bored rigid, but I don't know enough about any of it to enjoy it. Not yet, anyway. It's..." She tilted her glass, swishing the liquid around in clumsy circles, trying to find the perfect equation of words that would seem neither offensive nor indecisive, neither disinterested nor an incitement to be toyed with. "Right now, at least it's interesting to observe. I'll do some study for next time. Maybe then I'll get into it."

"Let's drink to that, then," he chirped.

"Excuse me?"

He stood firm. "You heard me."

She shrugged, trying to feign complacency. Whether good or bad, Agent Kruger offering – no, demanding – to buy her a drink was no empty gesture. "OK then."

He gave a derisive snort. "What's your poison?"

"I'll have a Jack and Coke, thanks."

"Good choice. Think I'll join you."

"Glad I meet your approval, Agent Kruger."

He chuckled darkly, his unforgivingly black eyes raking unashamedly from hers, down her throat and to her dress. All of a sudden she felt horribly exposed, her flesh coming up in goosebumps, overcome with an uncomfortable tingling sensation. Her throat tensed, alongside a knot that began coiling in her solar plexus. She found herself caught in that tense, conflicted place where she couldn't decipher what she wanted. Where one side of her begged for him to stop, the other yearned to be absolutely ravaged by his gaze... and not only his gaze. Too bad his suit jacket was just a little too long to see how defined his goods were in those attractive trousers. More of a shower than a grower...

_Stop it _yourself_. Snap out of it._

He made the choice for her, turning away and gesturing to the bar droids. He ordered two Jack and Cokes, and a packet of Marlboro. Talar didn't let on that, until now, she had been entirely ignorant of the place selling cigarettes. As he did so, she watched his hands, noting how his white-gold cufflinks, fashioned in the shape of some long-horned animal, sent the light dancing. Seconds later the drinks arrived.

"Let's go to a table," the lupine said. "I'm dying for a smoke."

"Ditto," replied his victim, her mind's focus on him interrupted only by the thought of the packet of cigarettes in her bag. She stood absolutely no chance of even hoping to quit with someone like Kruger around.


	13. FRACTAL - Duality

**CHAPTER 13**

She followed him to the seating arrangement second to the right, thankful that he walked in front of her rather than beside her, where he could have placed a hand on the small of her back. Those hands had been on her, once, the first time they had met. He had pulled her so close. Even now, she could recall with vivid clarity the strength of those arms and hands, the tickly rush of warm air against her ear, the pungent odor of tobacco on his breath and everywhere else on his body... and the stark, chilling terror his raspy threat had instilled in her. Although she wasn't aware of it at the time, that precise moment must have done something to her; it had changed something fundamental within her, irreversibly. It was indeed a baptism of fire, but one of a different sort – one that blazed, and razed to the ground, everything in its wake, but so incredibly quickly that the damage didn't become apparent until after it was too late. Her inner voice gave a sardonic snort; she was like one of those movie characters that had died but didn't know it, except unlike them, this particular movie was unlikely to have a happy ending. Kruger was trouble incarnate – Pandora's box in flesh and blood - and getting involved with him in any way beyond only the most functional would be unwise for anyone except the savviest of individuals. Unwise. Crazy. Stupid. Ruinous.

Yet, she went to the seating area with him. And, cognizant of all this, and of how she was now choosing to as good as off herself, she sat down on the same sofa as him, an arm's length to his left. But, had she chosen this? Had she really, truly, made the decision herself? Or had it all been a mirage, an illusion of control, when in fact the choice was never hers to begin with?

_This is not the right time to be getting existential._

She could back out now, could still change her mind somehow; perhaps pretend she suddenly felt queasy, and needed to go up above for air? Or, pretend she had left something in the car, and then-

It wouldn't work, and to try and delude herself otherwise would be valuable time wasted. Deep down, she knew that even if she did run away from him, she couldn't run from herself. If she left, it wouldn't be his presumed disbelief that brought her right back soon after; it would be her own curiosity, her own _desire_.

She should have listened to Botha from the start. Hell, she should have listened to her _own_ damn instincts from the start. If she had only exercised her usual sound judgment, the pragmatism that had kept her in employment thus far, maybe she wouldn't be in this mess.

"To Ms Talar Sampson, coming over to the dark side," the lupine deadpanned, extending his drink-holding arm toward her.

The dark side, indeed. Clearly subtlety wasn't his shtick tonight; if it ever was.

"_Maybe_," Talar replied, mirroring his action. "I might not even like it there."

"Here's to 'maybe' then," Kruger rejoined curtly.

"Fair enough."

They clinked glasses; and then, whether from the slight inebriation or a newfound self-destructive sense of humor, Talar, as if outside her body, heard herself utter one of the least apropos idioms that a woman in her situation could utter around a man like Kruger: "Bottom's up, as they say!"

Internally she admonished herself. Externally she went for a sip, that turned into a copious mouthful, trying but failing miserable to conceal the horror of her transgression.

"Y'know," Kruger said, following a swig of his own, "normally I'd respond to that with "I'd rather have _your_ bottom up." And you'd roll your eyes, and then I'd make a miffed face and say something like "What? Can't a guy make vulgar sexual references without being called on it? Fuck your lack of courtesy, man!". But as you're technically my superior, I'll spare you."

Either he completely missed the irony, or he was only too aware of it. Probably the latter. Yet another demonstration of how he was allowed to bend and break the rules whenever it suited him.

"Consider me eternally grateful," Talar quipped sarcastically.

"That's me. Bastion of chivalry," Kruger cracked, brandishing an ironic smile as he leaned forward, placed his drink on the table, replacing it with one of the pile of glossy black ashtrays.

"Oh, for sure. If you weren't a secret agent you'd be winning the Nobel Peace Prize repeatedly."

"I wouldn't go that far." He opened the packet of Marlboro and offered it to his prey. "Maybe just once."

She chuckled.

Despite having brought her own, Talar reasoned it would be rude to decline; not that courtesy held any genuine value to the man beside her, but if he could play nice, so could she.

She placed her drink on the table, took an ashtray, then accepted the cigarette, which came away with merciful ease.

Kruger retrieved a silver Zippo lighter from his trouser pocket. He leaned forward, a sly smile tainting his features as he crossed into Talar's personal space to light the cigarette placed between her lips. Although nothing could have convinced her he was doing so out of mere common courtesy, she thanked him with a nod and a smile as she took a long drag. The subsequent exhalation of smoke activated the screens, sealing her in a booth; sealing her with _him, _cutting her off from outside help. To be trapped in a gilded cage with a predator was both terrifying and thrilling in equal measures, like the protracted moment before the inaugural drop on a rollercoaster, she imagined; when you sat teetering on the edge, allowing the fear to take hold as you got a good, long look at just how high above the ground you were, realizing that the only thing between you and a painful, messy death, was a mere bar across your chest.

The drop was imminent, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it, nothing for it but to swallow her fear, and hold on tight.

He lit his own cigarette, taking a long drag before relaxing into the sofa, exhaling glorious nicotine smoke in her direction. He sat just like she imagined: leaning back casually, legs apart, right arm propped on the arm rest with his hand perfectly poised above the ashtray, whilst his left draped along the back of the sofa, as if he owned not simply this space but the entire room. The typical alpha male posture, save for him being angled slightly towards her; as the perpetual beta, normally she was the one made to do all the turning, twisting and angling towards everyone else. The difference, in this instance, she supposed, could be that he was playing at being nice.

But damn, _damn_, he looked absolutely stunning in that suit. She would wager, however, he would look even better out of it.

"So," he said, onyx eyes regarding her with blessed less intensity than before, "what's a girl like you doing working on Earth?"

*_A girl like you*_; she got the impression he hadn't chosen such a figure of speech to flatter her. Yet, she couldn't deny that it was this very animosity, this element of disdain for a female a fraction of his age holding a position superior to him, that she found so attractive about him. He had drawn her into combat with him, against him; he wanted a challenge, a _fight_.

Another drag. Another puff of sweet, sweet smoke wafting towards her. She breathed it in, breathed him in, and replied, "Fancied a change. The opportunity arose, so I took it."

"Pleased you did?"

"So far. I got to meet your charming self, didn't I?"

He snorted. "Oh yeah. That alone is worth coming down here for."

"So modest!"

"S'gotta be done, sweetheart."

As he leaned forward to pick up his drink, Talar decided to seize the opportunity to try and lead the conversation. She had to show some initiative, prove to him that, despite his upper hand, she would not passively submit, wouldn't let herself simply be steered and carried by him anywhere he wanted to go.

"Clear something up for me, Agent Kruger," she said. "On one of your files it says C.M, but on the other it just says M. I'm confused."

"Officially it's C.M. They're my birth initials. But I unofficially dropped the C when I joined the SANDF, asked everyone to just call me by the M. I guess it depends on who compiled the file."

"OK. So, what do those initials stand for? They only give initials in your files."

"They stand for "never you mind, you nosy little fucker". And I can't believe that."

She laughed. "I'd show you and prove it, but you'd have to kill me after."

"Hah. I like what you did there."

"So, what do they stand for?"

"Guess."

"No."

"Quitting before even trying? Where's the girl I know and love?"

There it was again – girl.

"Fuck you."

"Yes, you should."

A spear of heat ignited at her core, hoping he meant it as more than a mere witty riposte.

"No thanks," she lied.

"Too bad."

"For you."

"Just you keep telling yourself that."

"You're deluded."

"Takes one to know one."

"You're impossible."

"Another thing we have in common!"

"So what do your initials stand for?"

"You know what, I'll be generous. If you don't get it right in ten attempts, I'll tell you."

"Whoopee doo," she rejoiced sarcastically.

He shrugged. "Take it or leave it. You're the one who's supposedly interested."

"But your mother was from the Caucasus. I mean, on your file it said your ethnicity was Germanic and Caucasian. I assume from your surname that your mother was the Caucasian one."

"And you'd be correct."

"Well that's a whole area of names I'm unfamiliar with."

"Who says she didn't give me an English name?"

She shrugged. "Fair enough. Christopher Michael?"

"Nope."

"Caleb Mark?"

Pursed lips, head shake.

"Charles Matthew?"

Single, determined head shake.

"Cooper Maxwell?"

"Car showroom, that one. Or a legal firm."

"Cincinatti Montrose?"

"Ooohhh, close!" he enthused, pointing at her. "Well, clos_er._ In a sense. You're on the right track with one of them."

"In what way?"

He ignored her request, instead replying with a prompt "keep guessing."

"Colt Maurice or Ceremony Master?" she ventured, feigning an assurance that she didn't in fact possess.

"That's the spirit! But still no. Ceremony Master... fuck."

"Damn. Was sure I had one of those."

"I'll comfort you later."

"Nah, I'm good."

"Suit yourself. Continue."

"Ehm...Calvin... Mystery?"

"Now that just sounds like a second rate rent boy."

"Cosmo... Mikhail?"

He winced.

"_Now_ you're on the right track with the other one. But less of the Russian names, please."

She didn't apologize, but immediately came back with "So one of them _is_ a non-English name? I already told you I know virtually nothing about-"

"Well just guess what you do know. You're not stupid."

She sighed. She would have to wrack her brains.

"And the C's a...an unusual sort of name?"

"I'm saying nothing," he replied, blank faced. "You've got one more go. Put your memory to use and make it a good one."

She paused, inhaling deeply, turning her gaze upwards, thinking, but could still feel those iris-less eyes locked onto her, silently waiting. Just...waiting... biding his time coolly and calmly until the perfect moment to strike. If only he would stop looking at her she might be able to think straight...but that would be asking for a miracle. He would never stop looking at her, and he took immense delight in knowing just how unsettled it made her feel.

Finally she brought her gaze back to his, and announced, "Constantinople Muhammad. There."

"Aaaaaaand you lose. Sorry. But it's the taking part that counts, eh? And you can have a consolation prize for using your imagination and being kinda ¼ way right, 'cos I'm nice like that."

"I'm fine, thanks."

"You don't even know what it is yet."

"I don't think I want to know."

"But you do want to know what my initials stand for. So be gracious enough to accept your consolation prize, and I'll tell you."

She rolled her eyes, more than a little miffed at his uncanny knack of twisting and manipulating everything to his advantage. He wasn't the most erudite of people, but he was certainly quick.

"OK, fine."

"I'll bring you back something from my next mission."

"Sounds ominous."

"Something you'll _like_."

"Even more ominous."

He rolled his eyes dramatically. "I can't believe you still don't trust me. What's a guy gotta do to win your trust, eh baby?"

"Depends who the guy is."

"Well," he continued, with a quick stab of that ever keen index finger in her direction, "I'm gonna bring you something back, and if you don't like it you can give it back to me and tell me where to shove it. How does that sound?"

"That's fair," she acquiesced.

"So that's settled then. Fantastic. See, I always knew we could get along."

She forced herself not to look incredulous.

"Anyway, the M stands for Movsar. Ever heard that name before?"

At first she didn't think so, and shook her head.

"Sounds almost Armenian though."

"You're not that far off," he replied with a hint of a smile.

"Hmmm," she mused, studying his angular features with more scrutiny than she had cared to before. Oblong-shaped face, slightly almond eyes, scandalously high but not overly prominent cheekbones, sharp nose, thin lips, and what was probably an equally sharp jaw under that generous facial hair... But he was following her gaze again, tracking her every movement, and she had to look away, irritated. He was like one of those irksome little kids in the sitcoms her mother was so fond of, not even allowing her a moment's peace... except without the comedic factor.

Then it struck her; she _had_ heard the name before, in Anti-Social Studies class. Something to do with war with Russia. Yeah, of course it had to be Russia. That sure narrowed it down.

Reaching no conclusion, she finally asked, "Indulge me?" praying that he wouldn't make her jump through any more hoops this time.

"It's Chechen," he replied, with merciful compliance. "My mother's full Chechen."

"Wow," she mused aloud, "that's rare for South Africa, isn't it? At least, from what I remember, I don't recall anything about Chechens emigrating there."

"That's because they didn't. Apart from my grandmother. She escaped in 1944 during the purge, when she was pregnant with my mother, and long story short, eventually ended up in South Africa. Pretty impressive for a fourteen year old girl, wouldn't you say?"

Talar nodded.

"Chechens are tough people. Their national symbol is a wolf-"

A wolf. A _wolf_. Now it all made sense. *_Holy base-jumping Jesus..._*

"-it's the only animal that won't cry or whimper when it's been injured, but it'll look you straight in the eye and keep on snarling. I changed my middle name to my first name to honor that, really."

"So you do have some integrity, then?"

He flipped her the bird.

"Where would I have heard the name before, then?"

"I wasn't suggesting that you had. But if your history classes taught you anything about Russia's conflicts with its neighbors then you might have heard of Movsar Barayev."

"Vaguely..."

"Moscow theater siege?" he prompted her, "2002?"

"Aaahhh...yeah. I don't remember much, but..."

_'...weapons trafficking business integral to the funding and support of crimes against Russia'_ she recalled from his first file, and again it struck her, stunned her, just how long this man had been alive. Whereas she only learned about these things, he had witnessed them in real time. Still, she wasn't about to press him on it. Something about it made her feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"Hnnh," he said, evidently intuiting her unease.

Being nice again? He obviously wanted something.

"So you speak any of your mother's language?"

"It's called Noxchiin Mott," he pronounced it 'nakhchiin mwat', with a very soft 'kh', "and I can get my boy Mairbek on the phone in Grozny if you want?"

"Sure," she said, giving a genuinely eager nod.

He retrieved an oddly pristine cellular phone from his trouser pocket, swiped and tapped the screen, and held the phone up. It was on loudspeaker.

"Back when I was your age," he said, "these things didn't use to work underground. Phones were very primitive back then."

She wasn't sure whether he was simply filling her in on history, or trying to get a rise out of her. She let it go.

"And Mairbek's lucky he doesn't live in South Africa, with a name like his. 'Bek' is derogatory slang for 'mouth' in Afrikaans."

He waited, but the person on the other end didn't answer. It switched to answerphone, and he began talking, without even a trace of his coarse South Johannesburg accent, in a language that bore little resemblance to any she had previously heard; even her grandparents' native _hayeren_. In fact, he sounded like a completely different person.

He tapped the screen and then deposited the device back in his pocket.

"What did you say?" she asked, and it almost worried her that she was, actually, genuinely curious, and genuinely interested. No doubt he was loving the attention, too. One more notch on the bedpost of his ego.

"I said "howzit boet, you fucking jukka. How's your chot sister getting on? I'll be in town next week so get the fucking dop in or there'll be hell to pay. Fuck you and out."."

"Right..." she mused. "I didn't even understand half of that in English. But you said it so nicely."

"Naturally. It's all about the approach, you know? Manners get you everywhere."

It was just the way he said it; against every fiber of her being, she couldn't help but crack a smile.. which turned into an unexpected chuckle... which became a bona fide laugh. It felt strangely good, yet at the same time panic swelled in her chest at the fact that she was actually showing a positive reaction to a person she pretty much abhorred. Worse yet, he was laughing, too. They were actually sharing a moment.

_Oh dear God..._

Fortunately the laughter subsided quickly, but the panic remained. He had made her laugh. _He had made her fucking laugh_. And in some way, shape or form, he was going to use it against her.

"So are you in Grozny next week?"

"Haven't planned anything. I might be chocka with missions and have no time. But he doesn't know that."

The sudden sound of a phone ringing – a simple, unembellished ringtone - sent a jolt through her. She cursed inwardly, and cursed again at the flash of smugness in his pitch-black eyes. Nothing escaped him; not a blink, not a flinch, not even the tiniest moment of weakness. He saw it all, and he coveted it all, too.

Swipe. Tap. And then, "Ahaaaaaa!" followed by a machine-gun rapid sentence in that language, that voice, that sounded so unlike him other than it being equally as raucous. The man on the other end was in fits of laughter.

She watched him as he and his friend bantered on, his focus switching back and fourth every so often between her and the phone. A few minutes later the call ended.

"Mairbek wants to meet you," he chimed, looking nauseatingly pleased with himself.

Fury flared in the pit of her stomach, shooting up her body and into her face, where she felt her cheeks redden. They were talking about her. Had the entire conversation been about her? Just what in the name of all things holy had they been fucking saying?!

She had to calm down, had to stop reacting like some emotionally immature pre-teen. But it was too late, and she knew it. It was always too fucking late.

"Too bad," she replied, pulling a sarcastic face.

He tutted, shaking his head sadly, and lit up a second cigarette. "Too bad indeed, baby. And don't forget-" he wagged his index finger suggestively, "-you were the one who wanted to hear me speak Noxchiin Mott. You didn't give me a fucking script though did you."

"Ugh, OK, whatever," she said, shrugging. She was getting tired of this. Best change the subject. She squared her shoulders and continued, "Anyway, back to your initials?"

He acknowledged her with a nod. Thank heavens for that.

"So, what does the C stand for?"

"Cyan," he pronounced it 'sigh-an', with stress on the first syllable, "Short for Cyanide."

"OK, you're kidding."

"Only about the 'ide'."

"Cyan? Really?"

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. It's just unusual."

"It's about bog standard level of unusual for Safrica. There's this undying trend that was around in my day but still exists, of giving your kids pretty strange names, on a par with some of the ones you said a minute ago. Inertia. Anesthesia. Pepsi-Cola. Nostalgia. I'm not kidding. Rockafella. Stargazer. Macademia-Pistachiato. Ninjit-Su. Theraphosa-Blondi. Diplomatic-Immunity. Cthulu-TwinkleSprocket. And those are just the whites. OK, maybe not Diplomatic-Immunity or Cthulu-TwinkleSprocket. They're definitely Zulu ones. Anyway you get the gist. If I'd been a girl I would've been called Magenta. I think my parents must have consulted an ink cartridge when looking for baby names, but in that respect I got off lightly. Anyway, my initials are CMK, which is virtually the same as the standard color model - you know, CMYK? - so.."

"Your parents should have added a Y name."

He thumped the arm rest affirmatively. "Damn fucking right they should."

"I can't think of any though, apart from Yale. Or Yorick."

"Yorick, hah. Alas poor Yorick; I didn't even know the poor fucker but he's dead now so why should I care? One of my Grozny boys is called Yandar... then I know there's Yusup... Yaqub...Yakhya... I'm sure there are quite a few others. Mr. and Mrs Kruger, you missed an opportunity there."

He shook his head, chuckling. To her continued dismay, Talar couldn't help but join him.

"So what do I call you?" she finally asked.

"My boys here call me sir or Boss when we're on the job. Outside of that it's Kruger, or Krugez if they're drunk, or Cyanide if they're really drunk. My Grozny boys call me Movsar. My superiors when I joined the army used to call me "You Mongrel Twat", which, you know, I wouldn't actually mind if it was accurate; but if your parents' ancestors didn't crawl out of the exact same part of the sea and evolve next to each other then everyone's a fucking mutt...but I'm just being pedantic. Long story short, you can call me what you want..." he paused, his gaze lingering on hers with a dark mischievousness for a fraction too long, as if to suggest that she read between the lines.

_So long as it's when I'm inside you,_ that gaze said, and the funny thing was she knew it didn't necessarily mean physically – the bastard was already trying to chisel his way into her head, with a flat-pack flag and pole baring his own emblem strapped to his back, ready to erect when he finally got in. It was a war game to him, and she was unexplored terrain ripe to be conquered.

"Agent Kruger; Kruger; Krugez; Movsar; Cyan; Cyanide; Constantinople Marrakesh or whatever it was; Houdini... take your pick. So long as it's not fucking Russian, you should be good."

Another irresistible grin took hold of her. She couldn't help it – despicable excuse for a human being though he was, the guy was damn _funny_.

"But if you do call me Constantinople Marrakesh, I'm calling you Delilah. Remember?"

"Sampson and Delilah, yes." She opened her clutch bag, retrieving her lighter and packet of a cigarettes, before lighting a second one up. "So, Movsar, then? Off duty, of course."

He took another long drag. "Whatever works for you, _Ma'am._"

"Talar. Off duty, though." She winked.

"Oh, _of course_. Can't have you getting into trouble now can we?"

"I get the feeling you're always trying to get me in trouble."

He chuckled darkly. "_I_ get the feeling you're looking for it."

And perhaps he was right?

"Well, what's life without a little risk? A few days ago you said I hadn't lived. Maybe now I want to?"

A cutting gleam in his dark gaze, his eyes never leaving hers, he took a long sip of his drink. It made her wonder what he had inferred from her response; whether, in fact, she had even realized what she was implying... if indeed she had even meant to imply anything at all? Maybe he was just messing with her, as usual? Or had she somehow become that much of a lightweight drinker that she was too inebriated to manage her own faculties?

_Screw it, _she resolved. _Draw a line under it. Change the subject._

To that end, she cleared her throat, corrected her posture, and continued, "Anyway, I've got another question."

"Shoot."

"Botha."

"What about him?"

"What's your problem with him? You're constantly giving the guy a hard time."

He gave a derisive snort.

"And you can't say it's none of my business, when you talk to him like that in front of me."

He made a placatory gesture. "No, no, it's fine. If you want to make it your business then that's perfectly kosher with me, darlin'. But did he put you up to this?"

"Absolutely not."

He took another long drag, utilizing the time to survey her, as if trying to ascertain the verisimilitude of her answer. Although his lack of verbal response made her want to elaborate, to tell him exactly what she and Botha _had_ discussed with regards to his boss, she held firm, waiting the moment out. If he doubted her sincerity then that was his problem.

After another leisurely drag, he continued, "My problem with Botha, is that he's a Gen 5."

"Okay..."

"Here's what happened: the CCB scouts literally went to the Cape Flats thirty years ago, picked him out, and in two weeks he's all modded up and on the field. Me, Drakey, Crowe, Swanpoel and the Numbers boys, we're all Gen 1s. We were recruited for our skills and experience, not because some hoighty toighty doos in an $20k suit saw some latent potential."

"I hope they already have you on record saying that."

"Hah. They know, sweetheart. Trust me. So, after we were recruited, for the skills and experience we already had, _then_ we had to be properly put through our paces - 8-hour days in the gym just working out; then learning every fighting discipline imaginable, all by heart, by rote, by practice. We had to have legitimate medicals – syringes and tubes and cameras and fucking wires and spark plugs shoved where nothing should be shoved, if you get my drift. We had to be trained to exist in impossible conditions. The Gen 4s and Gen 5s got put under a medbay and bing bang bosh they're all fit and healthy. They got the immediate bone reinforcements, strength enhancers, pain-numbing injections, memory chips. You know, fair do's, if the technology is there you might as well take advantage of it. But it just aggravates me how soft the Bureau have become in that respect. I don't care how advanced your technology and medical science is; nothing compares to genuine experience. That's why we Gen 1's are still, and always will be, the go-to guys. Give the Gen 4s and 5s their own fucking teams instead of mixing them with the first 3 Gens. So that, in essence, is why I have a problem with Botha."

"I do see your point, but it's not really his fault though is it?"

"True. But he's still got no business being on our team. I actually raised it, you know, in that farce that they call the annual appraisal."

She chuckled. Another tenet of the ludicrous bureaucracy that the CCB prided itself on. And another thing she and he had in common.

"I was very diplomatic about it- no, don't fucking laugh, I was! Very calm, relaxed. No blood was shed or feelings hurt. Nothing went boom. But nope. And unless Delacourt calls for you personally, you've gotta go through 10 different people to get any sort of communication through to her."

"Ain't that the truth."

"So you know what I mean." He shook his head, gave a resigned sigh. "I made every effort possible to communicate my feelings to her, but it made no difference. And you can argue "oh poor Botha shouldn't have to bear the brunt of it", but that's the Bureau's fault for putting him in teams he doesn't belong in. They're the ones creating 'inharmonious working relations'-" he made an 'inverted commas' gesture, "-as they say. We're the kinda guys who won't make any allowances for him, and they should fucking well know that. And if they don't sort it out then he's gonna continue to suffer, end of story."

"I get it, honestly," she said, nodding in agreement. "I see exactly where you're coming from. But I still think it's a little harsh of you to treat him like that."

He snorted, then said jokingly, "Who are you, a fucking social justice warrior?"

"Why not simply ignore him? It can't be that hard to do."

"You're one step up from me. If _you_ feel so badly for him, why don't you talk to your superiors and see if you can get anything changed? Who knows; it might be one of those rare occasions where they actually take it on board?"

"Mediator's not in the job description I'm afraid."

"No, but you can raise it at your monthly appraisal. I know they monitor you closely over the first year."

"Did you not ask Andrew Chisholm? If someone of his gravitas couldn't get it done then I highly doubt I could."

"If I had asked him, I wouldn't be asking you now would I?" he said, raising an index finger. "As it happens I did ask him, nearly 10 months ago, but then he goes and gets murdered three weeks shy of his annual appraisal-"

"The fucking cheek!" she jested.

"Exactly!" he jested back. "How dare he!"

"Inconsiderate little shit."

"You said it! Fucking...inconsiderate little shit." He hung his head, chuckling, and when their eyes met again, Talar could almost discern a modicum of warmth there, as if he and she were genuinely bonding. She wasn't, however, naïve or delusional enough to believe it. "So it amounts to the same thing. Therefore, I'm asking you."

She shrugged. "Can't promise anything, but I'll certainly try."

"That's my girl!" he cracked, grabbing his drink and raising the glass.

He took one last drag of the fractional remainder of his cigarette, then stubbed the butt into the ashtray, before continuing, "Well, time to get back to the games, eh? Coming?"

"I've not finished my cig yet."

"Well, they'll probably be restarting on the Texas Hold'em table in about five minutes. Gotta get there early if I want a place. I can save one for you to spectate if you want?"

_And there was me thinking we'd stay here chatting into the wee hours._

"Thanks for the offer, but I already told Ramanauskas I'd sit in on his chess game. You go on; I might join you later."

"Alright then."

His eyes lingered on hers for an elongated moment; an unreadable expression that at once managed to pique her curiosity and arouse her trepidation. She couldn't begin to comprehend what was going on, if anything at all, behind the fathomless depths of that gaze. If this had been a movie, it would have been the moment for the two of them to tentatively lean in and gently kiss. But that didn't happen; instead, the lupine took his nearly empty glass, then stood up.

"See you later," he said coolly. Not a suggestion, a request, or a threat; a statement of fact. He turned to go, about to press the button to manually lower the screen.

For the second time in the conversation, the utterance escaped her mouth before she even had a chance to catch herself saying it: "Wait."

The lupine turned.

"I meant to ask about your cufflinks. What sort of animal is that?"

"It's an oryx."

"Oh..."

He looked somewhat surprised. "Not familiar with it?"

"Should I be?"

A very incisive smirk formed upon his face. "I guess they really don't tell you everything, do they?" he replied enigmatically.

"Huh?"

But he didn't satiate her curiosity; he simply turned right back around, pressed the button, and stepped out of the box, leaving Talar with the horrible feeling that whatever momentary game she had just unwittingly put herself in, she had lost. Nevertheless, she retained enough pride to stop herself from running after him, requesting an explanation.

Through the glass she watched him go, waiting until he was out of sight before letting out an exasperated sigh, allowing her eyelids to slide closed as she inhaled a lungful of sweet nicotine – a scent and taste she would now forever associate with him. He would never make it easy for her. Never. But then, was easy what she really wanted when it came to him?

Five days. That was all it took to turn her world inside out and upside down. It seemed almost unbelievable to think that, in less than a week, she had gone from fearing this man, and only fearing him, to wanting him; wanting him, despite everything. Or, inversely, perhaps _because_ of everything; because it was so utterly sinful to want someone so wrong.

Only, it wasn't even five days, was it? It was from the first damn encounter, and she knew it.

It was then that she realized her panties were damp.

"Fucking Cyan Movsar Kruger," she muttered, her eyes still closed.


	14. AWKWODER – Lovely Eyes

**CHAPTER 14**

"Like spiders?" the text on the screen read. Blue, underlined – a link. "If so, look what dive bombed my friend today in the car!"

At midnight, the first text from Botha had arrived. Jolly, upbeat, seemingly eager to know how she was enjoying her first Games Night, and also to tell her about his time in Sydney. Safe conversation, but at least it proved his interest; and that apparently Kruger hadn't endeavored to chase him off. Well, not _yet_. Having been engrossed in a game of Risk with Ramanauskas, Nevrakis, and a surprisingly good natured Spencer Aoki, however, Talar hadn't noticed the text until just after 02:00 when the event officially closed. In the first elevator, she had responded. He had responded to her within minutes, and by the time she stepped into the cool night air, the spider text had arrived.

From the moment she had returned to the games room, until closing time, Kruger hadn't said one word to her. He had kept to his games – clearly Risk wasn't his thing – and she to hers. But on his way to and from the bar, he'd chosen the route passing by her table, skirting closer than necessary on the way through; no words, no eye contact, not even a brush of the fingertips, but it was enough to set her heart aflutter and turn her entire form into a coiled mass of springs. Ramanauskas and the others played oblivious, or they hadn't noticed at all.

But what had really bugged her was the mysterious oryx cufflinks. Not wanting to undermine her own authority by looking like an idiot – especially with Aoki present - she hadn't asked her table mates about them. Neither had she diverted to her office on her way to or back from the bar, in the hope of running a keyword search on the laptop; even if accessible during out of work hours, the answer may have been something too immaterial to warrant inclusion, or maybe even something that she wasn't supposed to know and thus wouldn't be there at all.

She had decided to text Yasmin during the next break in the game, and less than an hour later she had her answer. If anyone would know, it would be Yasmin; and luckily, she did.

"South African animal and the name of the PMC (Private Military Company) who employs the mercs," her friend had explained. "Run by a comrade of Kruger's late father; guy from the 32 Battalion, hence the 32 in Kruger's codename, I presume. You learned about them in War History Studies, didn't you?"

Talar had. They were, or had been, a notorious and lethal unit of the South African military, circa late 20th century; that much she did remember, although the precise details evaded her. She didn't press her friend further, planning to conduct her own research later on, or hopefully broach the subject with Kruger himself whenever she got the chance. That his father had fought in such an infamous unit would no doubt be an immense source of pride for him; perhaps his reason for joining the military in the first place. Whilst Kruger didn't seem the type to care one iota what others thought of him, he would nevertheless probably delight in any opportunity to boast. The guy was nothing if not a showman, and showmen, by nature, loved to show off.

It was at closing time that she had turned around, getting the fright of her life upon finding the wolfish man directly behind her. Bastard, she had thought, her heart in her throat. That wasn't fair. Jump scares were the sucker punch of cheap tricks; and she had made a mental note to tell him as much when she regained her composure. Not that it would make any difference, however. But she had to learn to stand up to him, had to show him that for all his legacy, strength and power, he couldn't simply walk all over her whenever he saw fit. She may have desired him, but that absolutely did not render her as putty in his expertly capable hands.

"See you at the after party," he had said, with refined but horribly smug amusement, before joining his raucous band of merry mercenaries and making for the exit. His cocky self-assuredness rankled; had her curiosity not been piqued, Talar would have declined from going simply to prove him wrong.

Said after party, Ramanauskas had explained, took place at the very same Losee Road Artificial Ocean at which Talar had spent several hours earlier in the day. She was more than slightly rattled at the freakish coincidence; out of all the thousands of places in Vegas, it had to be that one. It smacked of something almost like fate. Almost - she wasn't entirely sure whether she believed in such a thing. Like every other establishment in the city, the LRAO never closed for business. You could really mess up your body clock here. Once a month, however, from 02:00-07:00 its pool section was reserved solely for CCB use. Dress code was a non issue; even swimwear wasn't mandatory. Those who turned up without swimwear, however, didn't have to resort to swimming in their under garments, or nude, if they didn't wish to, thanks to LRAO's own three floor poolside store.

Thus, much as Talar would have loved to get her own back on the gloating bastard, the prospect of hopefully seeing him scantily clad won out. Score #1 to the instinct-goverened reptilian brain, and too bad for the emotionally-goverened mammalian brain. Better luck next time, sensibility. If he was as proud of his package as he claimed to be, it seemed likely he'd favor form-fitting apparel over baggy shorts. Why wasn't the prospect of that not a perfectly justifiable reason?

Blessedly, few Elysian CCB attended these functions, Ramanauskas had revealed. For the most part, Games Night was about as close to fraternizing with the agents as they got. Kansas Cohen had confirmed this, when, upon Talar bidding her goodbye, she had expressed surprise – reserved, but surprise nonetheless - at her new 'friend's' decision to go to the party.

Talar had left with Ramanauskas and Nevrakis, and now stood outside contemplating whether or not to open the spider text from Botha. Best do it when no-one else was around so that she could scream freely without attracting stares. In her aircar, then. Although the lanky Lithuanian had offered her a ride in his own aircar, she had politely declined, asking him to text her the coordinates and telling him she would go there alone. Besides the possibility of having people see her scream like a crazy woman at the mere photo of a spider, she didn't want the kid getting the wrong idea; that was, supposing he hadn't already, and had also missed the cues from Kruger. Unlikely, but not entirely impossible either. He was a sweet guy, it seemed, and very intelligent, but definitely not the type the ladies would flock to. He might be so lacking in experience that he would perhaps misinterpret simple friendliness for romantic interest. Talar hoped for the kid's sake that he wouldn't have to pit himself against Kruger to win her affections.

Then again, there was a good chance that the South African alpha might simply find it amusing, and continue to let the beta suffer his delusions unimpeded. Realistically, Ramanauskas posed no threat; Botha, on the other hand... Perhaps she should lie to Botha, tell him she only wanted to be friends, stop things in their tracks before they both got in too deep? He was persecuted enough by Kruger anyway, without needing more flack for encroaching on the older man's territory; if indeed that was what Talar had become. Cruel to be kind, to herself as much as him.

C_ome on. Botha may defer to Kruger, but he's no pushover. He can look after himself._

Still, attracted to him though she was, the idea of putting the guy through unnecessary hassle didn't sit well with her. A romp or many would have been great, but they weren't worth a trip to the nearest medbay.

It wouldn't be easy, but she would have to think on it, thrash it out with herself if need be, until she could make a final decision.

_Yeah, look how well you've managed to stick to your decisions since you met Kruger._

_Oh go away, you._

_I'm just trying to help._

Just trying to help – that old, stock response, that particularly officious parents and meddlesome friends used when the help they offered, even with the best of intentions, happened to be entirely misplaced. If Talar could have taken a pill at that moment to rid herself of that bothersome dissenting voice, she would have done it, consequences be damned.

Perhaps more alcohol might help? That was it – she wasn't drunk enough. Nothing like getting smashed out of your head to encourage false confidence and lower inhibitions. Short of popping a miracle pill, that was the only way.

_After party, here I come!_

* * *

For reasons beyond merely that of global warming, Earth as someone of Kruger's age had known it had changed dramatically. Over the last hundred years, Talar had learned, scores of cities across the globe had succumbed to a watery grave, their replacements absolute marvels of engineering - massive artificial islands with skyscrapers up to two miles high, replicating with astonishing authenticity the scenery and atmosphere of their namesakes. Even landlocked places, such as Nevada, had taken to the trend, with new commercial establishments growing upwards rather than outwards. The Losee Road Artifical Ocean resort, however, was not one of them; although, with 30 acres worth of swimming pool, and contents imported from the Pacific ocean, Talar would wager that it cost nearly as much.

What it did have in common with the vertical cities, Ramanauskas had told her, was that it had John Carlyle to thank for its very existence. Armadyne being the largest, wealthiest and most powerful corporation to date, it came as no surprise. Armadyne was everywhere, and its CEO, whose genius mind had earned him immortality. The man was practically a god.

And like many gods, he favored all out opulence. The LRAO resort bore the hallmark grandness of a typical Elysian creation: excessively spacious; gleaming clean; a Miami color scheme of ivory-colored architecture, crystalline aqua waters, palm trees and tropical plants, their splendor magically illuminated throughout the night; and amenities on tap. The expanse of saltwater before Talar seemed to almost stretch into infinity, its boundaries acres away visible only by the pool's swathes of underlighting, and the white beams of the laminar LED jets skirting the perimeter at 50 foot intervals. A scattering of perfectly circular islands, all between 50 and 100 square foot, boasting their own comparatively diminutive enterprises such as beverages, snacks, inflatables, and more swimwear, helped to break up the space. Larger, pool-related amenities – a harbor with an assortment of boats to hire; a scuba diving outlet; a kayaking outlet; a wind surfing outlet; and a dinghy rental – occupied the far left hand side of the semi-circular pool, whilst a handful of restaurants, bars and nightclubs, occupied the right. With the exception of the nightclubs, all remained open, with only the pool-related ones temporarily closed to all but the CCB agents.

Some bizarre twist of fate had Talar's get up that evening matching the décor. Idling in a slim, cushion-upholstered chair at one of the four-seater tables – shimmering, gold-tinted plexiglass circles with three intersecting, desaturated gold prongs for legs - a good 30 feet back from the row of recliners at the pool's edge, she watched the gold-plated service droids weave back and forth, logging orders for refreshments. Although the function spanned the entire pool zone, the party of 91 – she, and 90 agents – were concentrated around the central area, closest to a stunning but utterly superfluous water feature creating an ambient hum of white noise in the background. Talar had always liked white noise, especially that of water; her favorite being waves. The soothing, gently bubbling caress of waves lapping at the shore or shifting under a lazy breeze held an almost mystical quality for her - the beaches, the oceans, of a planet she was barely a generation away from; phenomena formed and governed by nature itself, not sculpted and controlled by man and machine. But in tonight's case, hundreds of miles from the nearest real beach, fountains sufficed.

Synth-pop pumping through the speaker system, alongside the boisterous merriment of the poolside establishments and the visiting party, the latter of whom were only replacing the normal activities of nighttime revelers staying at the resort, Talar wondered how guests here managed to catch any sleep. Perhaps they didn't? Maybe, people didn't come to Vegas to sleep at all?

"Coming for a swim?" Ramanauskas chirped, after downing a fifth vodka shot.

Talar had arrived at his and Nevrakis' table to find both agents already changed into board shorts. The Lithuanian's shirtless form and naked lower legs were even lankier than she had expected, and virtually hairless; just a kid. It brought out an odd sort of mothering instinct in her, almost compelling her to throw her arms around him and tell him to go and find a job in a tech sector that couldn't feasibly get him killed. Neither his astute mind, nor the fact that he could clearly hold his drink, made any difference; he was still a kid, and the intelligence profession was no place for youngsters, even if it payed exceptionally well.

But she held back. The kid obviously had his reasons, and she as a relative stranger, and more importantly, his superior, had no right to interfere.

"Not sure yet," she replied, twirling the transparent, neon green straw in her lime daiquiri. "Might hire one of those rowing boats if you're up for that?"

"Slow down, you two," came a coarse, male voice from being them, startling Talar enough to jolt her in her seat and curse aloud. Turn around to face the prankster, though, she did not. "I'm not being best man for you again, Ozzie. Fifth time in as many years."

A pang of prickly heat flaring at her core, and a slew of obscenities running through her head, it was all Talar could do to suppress a gulp at the sight of him. The bastard stepped right into view across the table from her, cigarette casually in hand, but remained standing, playing the element of surprise, and her, perfectly. Because, for those few moments before her natural coyness kicked in, forcing her to direct her gaze toward her drink, she got enough of an eyeful to make a very lasting impression.

And with the lighting perfectly gracing every contour of his form, dear Lord, what an impression it was. Tanned skin taut over lean, sculpted muscle; chest hair heavy enough to scream virility, yet light enough not to look overbearing; a striking arrangement of silver grafts adorning his chest and upper abdomen; a slim waist, giving way to trimly proportioned hips... and then, his choice of swimwear, confirming her assumptions absolutely. Low slung maroon swim shorts, as scandalously tight as they were short, left little to the imagination. From the glimpse that she got, she found his forthrightness regarding his manhood indeed very well founded; where the guy clearly put a monumental amount of effort into the rest of his body, he had obviously lucked out in the cock department, and he was damn proud of it. Furthermore, not only was he not afraid to show it, his very readiness to show it spoke clearly of a typical alpha male dominance display. Talar recalled some odd tidbit from Zoology Studies about male iguanas displaying their erect penis as a tactic to intimidate rival males; although she remembered nothing in that respect about wolves. All the same, this particular wolf standing unafraid of his animal side called to the deepest, most primal instincts a woman possessed.

Momentarily, she mused what the other female agents in attendance (11 of 19) thought, watching him flagrantly strut around, advertising the goods like the most tempting of salesmen. It seemed less a question of him having fucked any of them at all, than how many of them he had fucked. Contrary to pervasive popular myth, women were no more sophisticated when it came to sexual attraction; they were, in fact, every part the base, hormonally-driven creatures so typified by their male counterparts. Every part as lustful. Every part as needful. Every part as responsive.

Poor, skinny, boyish Ramanauskas; he knew – he had to know - he stood no chance against the striking South African. Even Botha, had he been there, wouldn't have compared. It was neither fair nor nice; but it was nature, biology pure and simple, cavewoman instincts rising to the fore: virile guy equalled better sperm production; impressive appendage equalled closer reach to the cervix, and thus increased chances of conception.

But would Talar be the woman, or one of the women perhaps, he would fuck tonight? God knew she wanted to. Every inch of her screamed for him, yearning for the touch of those strong, albeit murderous fingers, stroking and brushing and clutching and kneading and bruising her tender, vulnerable flesh; those powerful hips, grinding against hers; those oddly white teeth scraping and grazing and maybe even biting at every prone centimeter of her; her hands in his hair and his lips on her skin and his metal grafts moving over rippling sheets of muscle as he drove his large cock home over and over again. Slamming into her. Screwing her hard and deep and mercilessly, like she knew he could.

Perhaps, if he not only cared to stay afterwards, but could get it up again – something she presumed wouldn't be difficult for a guy like him – perhaps she would even get to wrap her lips and hands, too, around his juicy member? If she was even more lucky, maybe he would take the proactive role and give her mouth a good fucking; grab her hair and hold her head in place, thrusting between her lips and right to the back of her throat, inciting her gag and splutter reflexes? Would what he sound like, she wondered? Would he be vocal? Would he call her a slut, a whore, a bitch, a fuck doll? And when he came, would he do so in her mouth, watching her with delight and satisfaction as she swallowed down his warm, copious load?

Oh Jesus fuck, the wetness in her panties now. The goddamn _heartbeat_ in her pussy.

_Don't look at him. Don't look at him._

_No, look at him. Look him right in the eyes and let him know you can fight back._

_But then he'll know that I want it._

_Like he doesn't know that already. And what's wrong with wanting it?_

_I don't know. I just... Not now. I shouldn't. It's too soon. It's unprofessional. I'm even making Botha wait longer than this._

_Talar Sampson, you know are your own worst pussy blocker, right? Just fucking get over it and surrender._

_He'll tell Botha._

_So? You're not dating Botha. For all you know he might be fucking a load of chicks in Sydney right now._

_I don't care. He was there first._

_Listen, as and when you remove your frickin' iron-clad chastity belt for Kruger, he'll probably tell everyone, Botha included. Especially Botha. Whether you're already fucking or dating or married to him. Better now than later, when you and the poor guy might actually have feelings for each other. Besides, if you sleep with Kruger now and Botha's still interested-_

_But what if he isn't? What if it puts him completely off me? And what if... what if Kruger only wants to fuck me to get one over on Botha?_

_None of that is going to be any different whether you let him fuck you now or later. So you might as well get some anyway._

"Hey, it's a good life being a Mormon," Ramanauskas quipped.

Talar couldn't help but join the other two in a chuckle, which, fortunately, helped to lighten some of the strain on her conflicted mood. She turned her attention to him, clasping at every possible opportunity not to look at the well-endowed predator opposite her, and said, "Supposing I was interested, who says it couldn't be an open relationship? So, boat ride or not? In fact-" she looked to Nevrakis, "how about you chaperone me, Agent Nevrakis? If Ozzie looks like he's about to lure me into his Mormon clutches, push him out."

The swarthy Greek Australian tittered. "Sounds fair."

"You know what, Krugez?" said Ramanauskas, feigning a rising ire, "Fuck you, man. I thought I had this one in the bag."

The quartet burst out laughing, although with a little disquiet on Talar's part, hoping and praying there was no underlying truthfulness in the Lithuanian's words. She focused on her drink, stirring the straw around and around whilst listening to the tranquil whoosh of the fountains, aiming for casual ease but knowing with a heavy heart that she was likely fooling no-one. She could feel the lupine's all-pupil eyes on her. She just knew it. And it wasn't a comfortable sensation by any means.

"What can I say, Ozzie, I'm sick of dressing in a fucking tux."

It was the long, audible drag on his cigarette that broke her resolve, causing her to look up, straight to his eyes, to find him already looking at her. He had been waiting.

With a hammering heart and a heaving chest, she rallied her every ounce of composure, and addressed him: "Yes, Agent Kruger?"

His expression turning mildly querulous, he replied, "I thought we were onto first name terms?"

She gave a conceding nod. "Force of habit. Er- Cyanide. Movsar. Constantinople Marrakech."

"OK Delilah." Lesiurely, he took another lingering drag, his gaze never leaving hers. She wished he would look away, if only for a moment. Just to let her breathe.

But maybe it was better this way; at least holding her gaze like this eliminated any chance of it wandering to his crotch.

She heard Ramanauskas try, and fail, to conceal a snicker.

"So...?" she prompted him.

"Why are you so sure I'm here to see you?" he sniped coolly, brows raised. "Maybe I just wanna talk to my boys Ozzie and Costas here?"

_Playing hard to get, eh? Well I can do that, too._

"Well don't let me stop you," she parried him sweetly, pushing back her seat, grabbing her drink, and rising to precariously shaky legs. "I'll even give you some privacy."

Bad move. Dizzied by the raging hormonal circus, the moment she made to leave, for the first time since 4th Grade she literally tripped over her own feet and went sprawling. The cocktail tumbled from her hand, landing with what sounded like an overwhelmingly sharp crash against the milky granite; although, being expertly crafted Armadyne glass, it didn't shatter. Talar's dignity shattered instead.

In the few seconds it took for her to hit the ground, her heart troubles increased from a mere uncomfortable pounding in her chest and throat, to an additional roaring in her temples and ears. For a few instants she could hear nothing more than that violent, gray clamor, battering against her eardrums, as the world continued to spin. Fortunately some innate reflex, in the same way cats always landed on their feet, protected her from landing too badly and knocking herself out; although pain bloomed in her wrists and kneecaps, which took the brunt of the fall.

Everything swam out of focus for a moment, more from the shock than the pain or any physical injury, and in her disorientation she didn't notice the strong hands helping her up until she was virtually on her feet again. Then it struck her: Kruger's hands were on her, at her shoulders, then her upper arms, then at the small of her back, then around her waist... seemingly in too many places at once; hands so deft and confident and steady. A real man's hands. And his scent... oh Jesus God, his skin smelled wonderful, the addition of cigarette smoke only enhancing his appeal. Sweet Lord, if the human body were capable of melting, Talar was certain she would have done so at that very point in time. Judging by her now sodden panties, her pussy obviously thought it was possible.

"Thaaaat's right," the lupine cooed, as if to a small child, as he eased her into her seat, "theeeeere you go."

Had Talar not been in such a befuddled state, his condescension may have provoked some degree of indignation; but at that precise moment she had more important things to worry about.

Seconds later, when things started to blessedly coalesce again, she noticed that Kruger now sat opposite her at the table, eyeing her with nonchalant scrutiny.

"Thanks," she uttered sheepishly, meeting his gaze. Was she blushing yet? Shit, she was.

_Fucksake, pull yourself together, woman. You're his superior, for crying out loud. So you fell over? Big fucking deal. You even have an excuse this time._

"You alright now?" he asked.

She nodded, despite the protestations from her wrists and kneecaps. "High heels and alcohol don't mix," she said, praying he would buy it. "Not for me anyway. I don't even have to get that drunk. It's ludicrous."

"S'fine," he replied, with a noncommittal wave of his cigarette-holding hand. "I don't know how you women walk in those things, frankly. They look nice, though."

Even if he saw right through her – and she had a horribly nagging feeling that he probably did - he was at least gracious, or invested enough, to pretend. Likely the latter. The guy would hardly be the type to cock block himself just to make fun of the plight of a silly, hormone-addled female.

"I'll take them off and leave you guys to chat," she continued. "Check out the swimwear shop or something."

Chuckling, the South African dragged on the scant remains of his cigarette. "Not so fast, Delilah. I _am_ actually here to talk to you."


	15. HIGH CONTRAST -Return of Forever(JohnB)

**AN**

\- The 32 in 32Bn (Battalion) is pronounced Three Two.

* * *

**CHAPTER 15**

Ramanauskas rubbed his palms together resolutely, announcing to Nevrakis, "Swim time for us!"

_No, stay! Please!_ protested Talar's inner voice, as the two promptly stood up.

_Hah,_ the demon voice snarked, _oh, help me Ramanauskas! I'm a damsel in distress! Don't leave me alone here with the big bad wolf and his big bad man meat that I want to fuck me six ways to Sunday!_ She nearly laughed aloud at the thought; the demon in her had taken on a distinctive Yasmin quality tonight in its lewdness.

Regardless, she said nothing, hoping her sudden distress didn't show on her face. She forced a cheery "Have fun!". Kruger bid them farewell by way of a nod. The duo nodded back, and strolled off, as if without a care in the world. For a moment Talar wondered if the three of them had plotted this before she had arrived, Ramanauskas as bait, the sheep's clothing to Kruger's wolf, to ensnare her.

Unlikely.

Why Talar didn't feel ready to be alone with the bearded man, she wasn't entirely sure. Nothing had really changed from their time together earlier that evening, except his lack of attire, right? He had _only_ upped his game by wearing shorts one step away from pornographic, producing the desired effect in her. She was _only_ twice as hot for him, and drunker. Realistically, nothing to worry about, right?

_Yeah. Absolutely nothing._

As Talar watched the duo's diminishing forms, the lupine stubbed out the dog end of his cigarette, placed it in the gold-plated ashtray, then leisurely rose to his feet and strutted over to the now vacant chair to her left, near enough for her to smell the tobacco and alcohol on his breath, but not entirely invasive of her personal space. He didn't even crack the old joke of asking if the seat was occupied; just sat right down with that typical confidence, that boldness, born only from a sense of true alpha superiority. He could do whatever the fuck he pleased, end of story. Freaking out though she was, she couldn't let herself react with equal idiocy as before. The guy had had his fun watching her flounder, so now she had to play it cool... assuming such a thing would be possible, of course. At the very least, she owed it to her self-respect to try. Hormone circus and sodden panties be damned, she _would_ try. She would damn well give it her all.

She angled her chair a little more towards him; a gesture, she hoped, demonstrating that she could give him her full, fearless attention.

W_olves can smell fear, can't they? You can't hide from him._

_But I can fight through it. That might impress him even more._

"So then, Movsar," she started, noting the pleased glint in his onyx eyes upon addressing him by his assumed first name, "...or Cyan? Which was it again?"

"Whatever you prefer. I'm good with either."

"I'll just call you Cyanide, for now."

_Good, showing some initiative. Now keep it up. You can do this._

"Works for me."

"Great."

"Super."

"What is it you want to talk to me about, Cyanide?"

"Well, first of all, I'd like to know if you want a replacement drink."

_Ah yes, should've remembered you wouldn't get straight answers out of him._

"Sure. Lime daiquiri."

"Anything more?"

"Hmmm..." she mused. Although any more could just as well spell disaster for her self control, the offer was tempting. Should she risk it?

"No other cocktails?" he prompted her, his tone and expression as jarringly guileless as his words were suggestive. "Mojito? Vodka martini? Bay breeze? Screwball? Sex on the beach?"

_I know precisely what you're doing, sir, and I'm not going to entertain it._

_Why not?_

_Not this again._

"_Pi_ña colada," she added, the hint of a flirtatious smile creeping over her face, completely without consent.

_Or you could just play right along with him. That's fine, too._

"Is that an "I would like a piña colada"?" he replied, unphased.

"Yeah, go on. Thank you." Although unsure whether she actually wanted one, acting indecisive wouldn't serve in her favor. Mere minutes ago she had recovered and taken some initiative; she needed to maintain that at all costs, even if it meant only pretending to have direction.

"So you like pineapple," he observed. "I like pineapple, too."

An ominous chime rang in her head.

"Try to get some every day if I can," he said.

She knew where this was going. Since forever, people had extolled the virtues of pineapple for its semen sweetening capabilities; a theory that proved true when two of her then boyfriends had put it to the test.

_He might just be teasing you._

_So tease him back._

"Oh you do?" she said, wearing the faintest of smirks. "How about parsley, celery, and chamomile?"

"Oh, I like _all_ of those. Melon, too. Papaya. Mango. Green tea. All forms of mint-" Shit, he was reeling them off; all the ingredients to mitigate the effects of unhealthy lifestyle choices on cum, such as smoking and drinking and consuming meat and dairy, not only making it taste palatable but also improving the consistency, "-cucumber. Cinnamon. Wheatgrass. And I always make sure to get my three liters of water daily."

Yep. He was doing exactly that.

"I can't imagine those would all be easy to come by when you're away for days working."

"They're not. That's what certain pills are for."

Although Talar herself had never heard of such pills, their existence came as no surprise to her. Sudir had always been, and likely still was, especially dedicated when it came to his own ejaculate, but he took everything fresh, as had her other boyfriend. Even in this advanced age of regular interstellar travel and big wheels in the sky, it seemed that most men remained embarrassed about walking into a pharmacy and asking for supplements regarding intimate issues. Some even ran fleeing at the sight of a tampon. Ol' Cyan Movsar Kruger, however, didn't happen to be one of them. He wouldn't be the type to shuffle in, eyes toward the floor and a cold sweat upon his palms, and then mutter to the pharmacist "Erm, do you have those what's-it-calleds for the, erm, you-know-what?" More like the complete opposite. Made a refreshing change.

"That's good to know," she replied coquettishly, twirling strands of tousled dark hair around her finger. Toying with him right back.

"Isn't it."

The bearded man's eyes lingered on hers, a dark mischief playing within their cavernous depths. Talar could lose herself there if she wasn't careful, with the static crackling in the air and the heat seeming to rise several degrees. Hand in hair, she stilled, like a screen character paused midway through an action. Spices and tobacco swirled around her, registering not only in her nostrils but also upon her tongue. She could taste his cologne. She could taste _him_.

Oh, to have his flesh against her lips right now; to feel that warm skin, those firm plains of muscle, that soft chest hair, all up in her face. She wanted to take her fingers, lips and tongue on a lengthy expedition from his mouth to his toes, leaving no part of his front side without caress.

_Keep it together. And don't you dare even glance at his cock. You're stronger than this._

As if by divine intervention, a noise to her right broke their contact, allowing her to place her hand back on the arm rest. A service droid, whose presence she hadn't noticed, had arrived. It made swift work of cleaning up the spilled drink, and then hurried off.

"Tut tut tut," Talar quipped, hoping to lighten the mood. She could return to playing cat and mouse with her fiendish foe in a while; now she needed to kill a little time in order to get herself back together. "That droid took about five minutes. They're getting sloppy, you know."

"You're not wrong. Last month when I was here, someone dropped a sandal in the shallow end of the pool, and it took all of three minutes for a frog-droid to go and rescue it."

"You were timing it?"

"No, I just have a very accurate gage of time. And when it takes as long for a droid to do its job as it does for my poor boy Drakey over there to do his business with a woman, that's a very serious problem. It should be like my boy Swanepoel and take 90 seconds. But I'm telling you this in strictest confidence, so shhh! Don't tell 'em I said that, or it'll hurt their poor manly feelings."

Talar chuckled.

"But do tell the manager here," he continued, "because come on, don't they know who we are?"

"_I regret to inform you, Sir/Ma'am, that your service here sucks worse than a lesbian giving fellatio. I hasten to remind you that *_we*_ work for the CCB. *_We_* are the people who get triple loyalty reward points on everything; and we demand and deserve better than this. I am, therefore, compelled to request that you improve your standards in a timely manner, otherwise I will be forced to take swift and immediate action: namely, making you acquainted with the term - in case you haven't heard it - extreme prejudice. Indeed, your establishment will be terminated with such such extreme prejudice that anything less will look friendly by comparison. To add insult to injury, we will make you fill out an entire rainforest worth of forms both prior to and following the event. _Sound good?"

"So, a diplomatic approach then?"

"How else? We're CCB after all."

"Indeed we are. So yeah, please go ahead with your extreme fucking prejudice. I'm impressed you know the term, actually."

"I also know a little about the 32 Battalion-" If the bearded man had been an actual wolf, his ears would have stood to attention just then. However, he remained silent, stoically composed. "-and that your father served with them."

He leaned casually on one elbow, regarding her with something between languid interest and mild perplexity. "I don't think either of those are in my file."

She nearly blurted out "so have you seen your file?", but caught herself just in time. He nearly had her there, the crafty bastard. Instead, she answered him with, "Not at liberty to disclose that sort of information, I'm afraid."

"So how did you come by it?"

"I learned about 32 Battalion in school. The rest...let's just say some things are a pretty poorly kept secret at the Bureau."

_Aw crap, you shouldn't have said that. Might come back to bite you on the ass later. Oh well, what's done is done._

He gave an amused snort. "Doesn't surprise me."

"For the record, I don't know the specifics about your father; only that he fought with the 32 Battalion. Care to enlighten me?"

The bearded man cracked a smile, looking genuinely pleased at her interest in him. "Gladly. But first let's order some drinks, eh?"

"Sure."

He pressed a small gold button in the center of the table, and moments later another service droid appeared.

"Now this one's got the right idea, eh," he joked, "more like my boy Ozzie: over in 3, 2, 1."

"That's a lot of unsatisfied wives."

"See, that's why I was trying to save you. These Mormons don't prize female satisfaction very highly."

_Uh oh. Here we go again._

"Right. Well, thank you for sparing me from a life of frustration and unfulfillment."

He grinned wickedly - "You're very welcome," - but abandoned that avenue of discussion, instead, thankfully, immediately going on to order for her. "And I'll have a Sazerac, a Negroni, a packet of Camel, a lighter...and the Joe Manifesto."

It gladdened Talar to know that a rugged manly man such as Kruger enjoyed cocktails, which she would have assumed someone like him considered too posh, or even feminine. It gladdened her yet more that he obviously didn't care. His total confidence and ease within himself was such that he could probably go out wearing nothing but sparkly bright pink shorts and a feather boa and still be the most masculine guy alive. Not giving a shit was sexy.

"Right away, sir," said the walking, million dollar contraption, turning swiftly and striding off.

"Joe Manifesto?" Talar probed.

"The great thing about this place," the bearded man answered, "is that they go no holds barred for the CCB parties. The JM's one of those things."

"But what is it?"

His expression turned sly. "You'll see."

"Ah. I think I have an idea:" She demonstrated by sniffing audibly, then clearing her throat.

The lupine chuckled darkly.

"Just for the CCB, though?"

"Yep. We're the chosen ones. Diplomatic immunity and all that jazz."

_Oh, should I do it? Should I do it?_

_Go on. Any excuse._

She clicked her fingers and chanted, "That's how we' livin' at the CCB and you know-"

This time, the wolfish South African looked genuinely surprised. "MC Hammer, _Can't Touch This_?"

"Ah hah," she replied snappily, pleased with herself.

Looking wistful, he said, "Jislaaik, that brings back memories. Was around when I was 19, in the army, just got my promotion to Corporal like a week prior. My boys and I partied to this on repeat, we fucking loved it so much. Y'know, I'm liking you more and more, girl."

"You didn't like me when you first met me."

He swatted away her response as if it were a pesky fly. "Oh, I'm like that when I first meet anyone, sweetheart. 'Cos I'm an altruist, you see. A people person. So, by very fitting way of introduction-" he mimed throwing a punch at her, "here's a punch to the face!"

"I don't know how you manage to survive as a mercenary. You've got way too much heart."

He sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Yeah, always knew I wasn't cut out for it. Shoulda gone into puppy and kitten photography or feng shui interior designing or something; y'know, a job that's of real benefit to society. But at the end of the day, needs must. Gotta pay the rent somehow, eh? And preferably in a way that grants me immortality, free healthcare, and property on the torus."

"When you put it like that, it makes perfect sense. You're just misunderstood, really."

"The mercenary profession is misunderstood."

Talar raised an eyebrow.

"There you go," he said with a sardonic titter, "point proved."

"Come on; you don't get paid to be nice guys."

"Point proved, strike 2. Listen, I'm not gonna call us tree hugging hippie people. We don't sit around holding hands and singing Kumbaya-"

"But you do when you're drunk enough. And wearing flower crowns."

"That, girl, is a different story."

"Knew it. And little daisies woven into your beard."

"I'm saying nothing."

"In vino veritas."

"So you're saying I really _am_ a nice guy?"

"Yeah, in the ironic sense."

"Ah. So I'm actually _not_ really being nice to you right now?"

"Ehh... that's not what I meant and you know it."

He pulled that maddeningly guileless expression again. "No, I don't know it. Please do explain it to me."

Mirroring his expression and tone, she replied, "Explain what?"

_Hah! Throwing your own argumentative tactic back at you, mister. See how you like that._

She wasn't sure what to expect in his response, but it certainly wasn't the one she got. Rather than issue some immediate witticism, the onyx-eyed man paused, his unreadable gaze merely holding hers. Voicelessly, stealthily, he inched toward her, as if going in for a kiss, or a kill, or both. Although he stopped short of doing so, and despite Talar's hitherto best efforts to hold firm, at that moment instinct – that innate fear of predation – took over, causing her to flinch backwards against her own will. It was all well and good joking about his personable nature, or lack thereof; the fact was, she hadn't seen the less than 'nice' side of him in full effect, and she hoped, she prayed, that her attempt at a smart rebuttal hadn't just incited him to show it. She had gotten a little too comfortable with him, hadn't she? Forgotten the snarling, sharp-toothed animal that lurked just behind the smile and the jocularity, just as he had likely planned for.

She remembered then with painful awareness her own immaturity, her naivety, and her goddamn fragility, in the face of an apex predator like Kruger. This wasn't Sarah Williams vs the Goblin King, from that antiquated movie she loved as a kid; magic powers and crystal spheres notwithstanding, she really was no match for this man, let alone with him clad in shorts worthy of David Bowie's own costume arsenal. Sarah's triumphant refrain, her parting words to the vanquished Goblin King – "You have no power over me" – became nothing but empty air, meaningless sounds, against the might and armor of this professional killer. She was simply a little girl, way out of her depth; a little girl who hadn't even heard of oryxes until several hours ago.

Like a natural, predictable equation, it then took all of two seemingly infinitesimal seconds for that same paradigm shift to occur, shock and gut-churning fear giving rise to a surge of almost overwhelming desire. Just as he had planned, no doubt. Oh, to say yes. To just say yes. To surrender right then and there. It would be so, so easy. And all the while, frustratingly, as her heart ramped up to a breakneck speed and sent blood and moisture zooming to the juncture between her legs, she remained fully cognizant that she needed to fight back somehow, even though her resolve to do so wained further and further with each moment in her lupine foe's captivity. She could almost see her willpower crumbling, as if it were a solid object right in front of her. Chunks of it falling irresistibly away, dispersing into the air.

_It's not fair!_

Shit, why did this still happen, time after time? Why did she keep forgetting to hold her guard? Where was that rational, practical facet of her that had thus far been able to take a step back from knee-jerk emotional reactions – hell, even from hormonal ones – and develop strategies to cope with difficult situations such as this? Why did this one person possess the capability to raze her every defense to the ground? Even the IceMare, and Heidi 'auburn haired menace' Bryant, couldn't do that.

Possibly because, love or loathe them, they were at least closer to her kind than he was. Far from close, but certainly with more in common. He, however, came from an entirely different world, not just geographically but psychologically. And he was a seasoned traveler to boot, whose profession no doubt had allowed him to experience people from every walk of life; she, until last week, had never met anyone else besides what she would loosely, begrudgingly, call 'her own kind', let alone anyone like him.

Expressionless, but obviously satisfied, he retreated, relaxing back into his chair. He sighed lazily.

"I'm a nice guy, baby," he gibed, his face still unreadable; although it quickly changed, morphing into the perfect picture of an affronted soul. "It pains me, right here-" he laid his right hand over his heart, "that you could think otherwise. In fact, I'll tell you right now, I'm offended. Mortally fucking wounded. Fucking...crushed." He paused to wipe imaginary tears from his eyes. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go to the bar and make amends with my broken heart by way of a liter of whisky, chased with brake fluid and Nyquill. And I'll get them to dust the edges of the glasses with scopolamine powder, too. Go hard or go the fuck home."

With a slam of his palms against the table top, he stood up, and flounced off. For a moment, Talar wondered if he was, in fact, serious, although his return mere seconds later proved otherwise.

"Did you pause time or just change your mind?" Talar managed to joke, feigning recovery and easing her posture.

"Neither. What I actually did – and you better keep schtum about this because I'm letting you in on military secrets here... what I actually did, was slip through a portal into a parallel universe where time moves much faster and Ozzie's the President. It's actually a week later in that universe."

"Hm. Well it seems to have done you good. You look happier."

"Yeah, I'm all better now. Broken heart mended, ego rebuilt. Fighting fit and ready for action once again!"

"Hallelujah!" she cheered.

"Fucking right, hallelujah."

"So, back to...errr..."

"Me being a nice guy."

"We've been through that. And we've established that you are. I guess. Whatever."

"Eh," he said with a shrug, "well, I'll take it."

"Do you really think mercenaries are misunderstood?"

"I never gave a fuck about that."

That hardly surprised her. "You wouldn't still be one otherwise."

"'zakly."

"But they _are_ misunderstood, though? I'm just curious why you'd mention it."

"The private military profession in general is misunderstood, to a certain extent. I can't speak for every mercenary individually."

"Well, yeah."

"Because Private military contractors-"

"Contractors?"

"Private military companies are the companies themselves. The mercenaries who work for them are known as 'private military contractors'."

"OK."

"Because they're motivated by money rather than political or religious allegiance, some people get the wrong idea. They forget that PMCs have existed forever, and that governments actually depend on us to do the jobs that their armed forces don't dare risk. Even when armies were any cop, back in my day, they utilized PMCs. If that makes us evil, then we're a necessary evil. Sure, some people are quick to call us cowboys – and I'm sure in a minority of cases they're actually right – but they don't see the positive things we do: the peace we make; the lives we save; the insurgencies and wars and social ills we prevent; the things we protect. We operate outside political and religious fields because, in my humble _fucking_ opinion-"

Talar stifled a laugh.

"-politics and religion are bullshit. Politics especially. I don't concern myself with fucking politics; I've seen too much to trust those guys. Their prime objective is to fuck mostly everyone over for their own gain."

"Tell me about it. Office politics are just as bad. I missed out on years of promotions because I don't do politics in any way, shape or form. Everyone else plays games and I want no part in it."

_Make that, I _can't_ play a part in it. As in, am not capable to._

The lupine raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing with the CCB then?"

Talar shrugged. "I used to think I knew. But hey, at least I finally got to travel."

Kruger noted her with a "Hnn", pausing, observing her with a scrutiny casual enough to leave the option open for her to elaborate if she so wished. When she didn't, he continued, "Mercenaries of any merit are soldiers who do what they do for money, and they don't ask questions. Asking questions isn't their job. They don't get into debates about what's ethical and what's not. You have a directive, you fulfill it, you get paid. Nothing more, nothing less."

Talar nodded in agreement. "Just so you know, I'm not here to question whether what you do is good or bad. It's not my business to care; and if I did, I'm in the wrong profession."

"But...?"

"But what?"

"Sounded like you were leading up to a "but"."

She paused, blinking twice, perplexed. Was he right? Initially she didn't think so, but had there been something at the back of her mind, poised to jump to the forefront? Wasn't there something she had secretly wanted – needed – to ask, but shied away from in the event that an honest answer would be too objectionable for her to take? Wasn't there that part of her – the part that didn't want to reconcile the oft easygoing man off duty to the one in the file – that had conveniently forgotten certain words from his rap sheet, and his greeting threat to her?

Regardless, she had paused long enough to confirm his, and her own, suspicions. She could attempt to lie that it didn't bother her, that it was all par the course of working where she did, but he would see right through it; the fact that she had brought up the subject of their first meeting screamed loud and clear just how bothered she in fact was. Besides, if she didn't answer truthfully now, the issue wouldn't simply vanish; quite the contrary, in fact. If she was going to sleep with this man – or if she wanted a solid reason not to – she needed to know; and if he gave her that reason not to, she would get up and leave, and not look back.

Or would she?

And if that wasn't a reasonable enough deterrent, then what would be? Was she now so deeply enamored of this man that wild horses would have to drag her away? Surely not?!

"I wasn't, actually," she answered honestly, "but now that you mention it... There is something."

"Go on."

"I've seen your rap sheet."

He echoed her pause, looking thoughtful. "Had an inkling it was that."

_An inkling, huh._ If his greeting was anything to go by, the bastard had probably been dying for her to confront him over it. Hell, if he hadn't prompted her just a moment ago, would she even be addressing it now? Crafty fucking operator.

_Well, nothing to lose now. Might as well just come out with it._

"You knew I had to, otherwise you wouldn't have said what you said."

He snorted, smiling into the distance, before turning back to her.


	16. MAKAI - North Star

**AN**

\- The 'Company' in Alpha, Bravo, Charlie etc Company is abbreviated to 'Coy'. The official pronunciation of 'Coy' is 'company', although it's not unusual to pronounce it as it's written. Let's assume Kruger does the latter.

\- I've had to take a few minor liberties with the real life history of 32 Bn, and the SA military in general.

\- Kruger's promotion at age 19 has been changed from Lance Corporal to Corporal. Until the reinvention of the South African military sphere in 1994, it was possible for the more dedicated members of the armed forces to ascend the ranks at a much faster rate than would likely be possible nowadays.

\- Contrary to what you might think, white Anglophone South Africans even pre 21st century generally called their mothers 'mom', rather than 'mum'. Their fathers are referred to either as 'pa' or 'dad'.

* * *

**CHAPTER 16**

Judging by his reaction, his answer wasn't going to be good. Talar steeled herself, despite the mounting anxiety in her chest, for what could be the deal breaker in their short acquaintance.

_Or not_, the demon sniped. But she didn't want to give any thought to that.

"Our little introduction:" Kruger said, "consider that hazing. My own personal form of it."

Talar did her best to sound more confident than she felt; but she feared that what made her feel timid now was less about challenging the wolfish man, than what it might mean for her if he gave an unpalatable answer. "But your convictions aren't. Not for your targets, anyway."

He regarded her for a moment that felt far longer than it probably was, before replying in a carefully measured tone, "Welcome to Soldiering 101, my friend. In my line of work, and even in the regular armed forces, sometimes we have to use extreme tactics to ascertain information. I won't even try to bullshit you about that. It's not nice but it happens all the time I'm afraid; it's just the nature of the business."

_Well, that was...better than expected,_ she thought. Unless of course he wasn't telling her the whole truth.

"It's out job to make targets comply. If they resist, we have to up the anti. So we make threats. If they keep resisting, then we have to up the anti even more; make it clear to them that _we're_ the ones in control, and just how helpless _they_ are. We do that by following through on our threats. It needs to be absolutely crystal clear to these targets that their only power, and the only way to make the ordeal stop, is to surrender whatever information they're withholding; and that if they don't, they'll face the ultimate penalty. I don't usually have to resort to such extreme tactics. Most of them give it up after only a little fracas, but there are always a few who require special treatment."

_Are_ always a few. Present tense. Did that mean-

_Leave it. It's not as bad as you thought it was, and that's all you need to know. Take that and run with it._

"But what if they really don't know anything?"

Undaunted, the man continued, matter-of-factly, "My directive is to retrieve information by any means necessary, and that's it. If someone above me gets it wrong, that's not my problem. Like I say, that's soldiering. That's how it is throughout this entire business."

Talar let out a deep breath that she had been holding, unaware. Despite her lack of knowledge on most things military, his answer rang completely true. Albeit unofficially, torture and rape were part and parcel of the business anyway. They were inevitable, and, repulsive as that may have been – as it should have been – somehow there was something freakishly comforting in knowing it, too.

She answered him by way of an understanding nod. "And the crime's not in doing it;" she acknowledged aloud, "it's in getting caught. As is the way with everything."

"Exactly. So, it's a non-issue really."

She exhaled, long and slow. "I thought I'd be a lot more bothered, actually; but the way you put it..." she shrugged, "I can't say it doesn't make sense, so... Yeah."

"And that's all?"

"Yeah, I- I guess."

"No other nefarious activities you want to question me about?" A mischievous grin crept across his face.

"If anything occurs to me, I'll let you know right away."

Perfectly on cue, the sound of clinking glass rang out from somewhere behind. A split-second later, the service droid reappeared carrying a tray of drinks, a packet of Camel cigarettes, a lighter, and a tiny covered gold platter the size of a packet of painkillers. "Your orders, Sir, Ma'am," the contraption announced, swiftly placing the glasses and the platter on the table, before making a swift exit.

Kruger reached for one of his two drinks – a chunky rock glass filled halfway with amber fluid, and decorated with a curl of lemon peel balancing precariously on the edge.

"Which one's that?" Talar asked, reaching for her lime daiquiri.

"Sazerac. Wanna try it?"

She smiled, shaking her head. "I'm good, thanks."

Both sipped their drinks in unison.

Maybe it was the sharp zing of the lime juice, or the kick of the sugar, but through the mild alcohol-induced haze came a moment of resounding clarity. And in that moment, somehow, out of nowhere, something snapped. It wasn't his not so surprising revelation vis-a-vis the soldiering profession, nor was it her curiously easy acceptance of it. It was simply time for her to take a long overdue stand - despite her roiling desire, she would not sleep with this man tonight, even though she would surely go crazy with frustration after she left his company. If he truly wanted her, she would make him damn well pursue her, work for his meal. But she had to do it soon, before he managed to turn the situation to his advantage again, obliterating her fledgling resolve in the process; engage him in platonic conversation until she finished her drinks, and then leave. No ifs or buts.

Her companion slid the miniature tray towards him, removing the lid to expose a gold implement resembling a scalpel of sorts, and two square boxes, each a quarter of the tray's size. Had Talar not known better, she would have mistaken the set up for something pertaining to Japanese condiments. Fortunately she did, and thus what Kruger preceded to do – remove the lids of the boxes to reveal folded up squares of gold leaf paper in one, and white powder in the other; before unfolding and rolling up the paper, then using the scalpel to remove some of the powder and arrange it into two lines running the horizontal course of the tray – came as no surprise to her. He offered the makeshift pipe to her – she declined – then promptly snorted both lines.

He replaced the lids, pushing the tray away and sniffing loudly. "It's not going anywhere," he said amiably, one hand opening the packet of cigarettes and fishing one out, the other swiping the lighter, "in case you change your mind."

"Nah, but thanks all the same. Coke never did anything for me."

"Really?" He lit the cigarette, immediately taking a long drag.

"Mmm hmm. It wasn't worth the comedown for a few hours of feeling extra wired. I could get the same effect with caffeine pills and none of the comedown."

"If you had a come down then it wasn't decent coke. This stuff here; just a pleasant, subtle effect, and virtually no come down at all. And anything you do get you can temper with alcohol. Two shots of vodka and it's problem solved."

"I'm OK right now, thanks."

"Fair enough." Onyx eyes lingering casually on hers, he took a relaxed drag.

Talar waited, hoping for him to revive the truncated topic from ten minutes earlier, but he seemed content just inhaling and exhaling, blowing smoke into the balmy air. She was past engaging in a battle of wills with him, so she made the first move.

"So, your father and 32 Bn?"

Blatantly in no hurry to answer, the lupine downed the rest of the Sazerac, then took another drag, before clearing his throat and answering, "As you may or may not remember, 32 Bn was formed in 1975, against the backdrop of the Cold War, as a clandestine unit to support the SADF in their efforts to deter the spread of communism."

Talar nodded attentively.

"Within a couple of years they had gained a fearsome reputation; they'd refined their tactics, their techniques; their looks, their weaponry... and they had the pick of the best officers and NCOs. But their early days were radically different. They were a lot less refined. My dad got to witness their transformation, see them "Forged in Battle", as their motto came to be. He was there right from the first operation in October 1975 – Operation Savannah – when the battalion was known as Bravo Group, and it was run by Colonel Jan Breytenbach – back then he was a Commandant – who I'm sure you've heard of."

"Yeah. Again, I don't recall the specifics, but... He was the one appointed to form the unit...or something?"

"S'right. He founded the unit, and he was also appointed as the first commander of what we call 'the Recces', and 'the Parabats'; that is, the Special Forces, and the Parachute Battalion. My dad was a Bat prior to 32, which is amusing for reasons I'll get onto shortly; or as we still say in Johannesburg, "now now"."

"Now now? That's interesting."

"The South African concept of 'now' – any form of 'now; and there are several – it's very different than anywhere else in the world, except the Caribbean, for some reason. Probably the ganja. But even in Saffa it differs according to region and profession. Anyway, so... My older brother trained as a Recce during National Service, made it, and stayed there until his retirement. He was as hardcore as me, that guy. And I was a Bat before I made the Recces, and I later returned to the Bats when they were lacking senior staff. Those fatigues that I wear, they're Bat issue from the early 1990's."

"Bullshit. They've survived all this time?"

"I bullshit you not."

"You bullshit me not, Cyanide?"

"I absolutely bullshit you not, Talulah."

"That a portmanteau of Talar and Delilah?"

"No – that would be Talilah. I was just thinking your name reminded me of a character in a musical – Talulah from Bugsy Malone, if you've heard of it."

"I have. But I can't stand musicals."

"Me neither. Talulah's a pretty nifty name, though."

"It's OK. Not bad. But I prefer my real name."

"Fair enough, Talilah."

"Fair enough, Cyanar."

"Ooh, Cyanar... Now that's a good one. Got a nice ring to it. Gonna make a mental note of that: ding! Anyway, back to the uniforms: Those 90's issues were the real deal. Quality craftmanship. Not like the kak of latter years. The entire SANDF started going to kak from the early 2000's, and it took all its uniforms with it. But fortunately a few certain individuals had the foresight to stockpile a load of 90's issues – Soldier 2000's, they're called – so we were in luck."

"We being the guys at Oryx?"

"Well done."

"Hence your cufflinks."

"Someone's been using their time constructively, I see."

"Well, those cufflinks are nice."

"They are, thank you."

"You're welcome. But I'm confused... Your entire team, except for Crowe, wear those uniforms, if I recall correctly? They weren't all Parabats."

"The uniform I wear is from the Bats, but the pattern is standard SADF and became the standard Oryx one. There are exceptions. For example, Drakey's very attached to his browns – nutria brown combat trousers from the Bush Wars, that his cousin gave him – so he wears those whenever possible. That's his entitlement as a Gen 1. Crowe's a pilot, so he gets to wear his Airforce blues if he wants; but those weren't stockpiled, so the ones you see him wearing are antiques. I swear when he finally wears them out it'll be like losing a loved one for him. He'll send them off with full military honors."

"They might have invented medbays for clothes by then."

"If they did then I think Crowe might just send them a thank you card. And that guy never sends anyone thank you cards. Never ever. No fucking manners."

"You're so sweet about your boys. It's heart-warming."

"Ehh." Kruger gave a nonchalant shrug.

"Back to the Bats-"

"Yes. Back to the Bats, and Bats to the Back. Try saying that after one drink too many. Anyway, shoot."

"I'm assuming they were tougher than the regular army?"

"They were. There were three levels of 'tough': first the regular army, which could be incredibly tough in its own right; then the Bats; and then the Recces. But for me it wasn't about the toughness; it was about the danger, the risk. Danger and risk are thrilling."

"You must've been a nightmare for your parents, especially with your brother in the Recces, too."

He chuckled. "My dad was fairly laid back. My mom had her hysterical moments about it, but my dad helped keep her grounded."

"Right."

"So anyway, 32 and Breytenbach... remember them?"

"Errr... we were talking about them last... week? Was it?"

"If I remember rightly."

"Hmm."

"So, Breytenbach... Like I say, he basically turned this ragtag bunch of miscrient Angolan guerillas from the FNLA into the most formidable, feared fighting unit Africa had ever seen. They acquired the nickname 'Os Terríveis' by their enemies – 'the Terrible Ones' – because they were so deadly. They routinely took on an enemy numbering twice their size and fucking obliterated them."

"You're kidding?"

"Absolutely not. There's this basic military principle that says you have to take on your enemy 3:1; that is, your numbers should be three times theirs. 32 basically said "fuck that". It was close to the other way around. That's how they earned such an outstanding reputation. They were as hardcore as any Parabat or Recce. But back to my dad: he was always the proactive type, and he had a knack for languages, too; he spoke fluent Afrikaans, Chechen, French... so when the Bush Wars broke out in 1966 he took it upon himself to learn Portuguese, which was the official language of much of Africa in those days. Angola was a Portuguese colony, so they spoke both that and their native languages. Because my dad was one of the few NCOs who spoke Portuguese, he was stationed with Bravo Group initially as a sergeant, under Breytenbach's command, as one of the platoon leaders of Alpha Company, to help whip these guys into shape."

"Hence the 32 Alpha in your codename?"

"The very one." He gave a reverent nod.

Talar couldn't help pumping her fist triumphantly. "And the 21b?"

The lupine's expression took on a mischievous air. "Combat Engineer." He shot her a wicked smile.

"Not familiar with that one."

"You're aware of 'extreme prejudice', but you've never heard of 'combat engineer'?"

"Is it directly linked with extreme prejudice?"

"Not necessarily; but very often."

He held her gaze, prompting her to do the math; an equation that required just a little too much conscious thought for her slightly inebriated brain at that current moment.

She fired off the first thing that came into her head: "Engineering, as in orchestrating, hits against targets?"

"Not exactly, but close enough."

She waited for him to elaborate. He merely held her gaze.

"Don't make me do that 20 guesses thing again."

He chuckled. "10 guesses?"

"No."

"Nine."

"No."

"OK, eight. Eight guesses."

"No, thank you," her tone was good natured, although she was beginning to lose her temper with his juvenile tactic. Juvenile or not, though, it was a tactic that worked, if sparking her fuse was the desired outcome. He was like that irrepressible joker in every class who routinely drove teachers to their wits end; in fact, he had probably been that very type of kid during his school days. Assuming he had actually attended them, of course.

"Alright, five. Knocking off three in one go. That's bartering for ya. How about-"

"No! Agent Kruger-"

"She's pissed. I know she's pissed when she reverts to calling me by official title."

Talar fixed him with a dramatic eye roll, to which the lupine held up both hands placatingly.

"Alright alright," he conceded, "I just thought, you know, Miss Sampson here likes a challenge, so I'll give her one. That's all."

She appraised him with skeptical eyes, wondering also if there was anything to his particular choice of words.

_Mmm. You would still accept one from him if he gave it to you, wouldn't you._

"I love it when you look at me like that, baby," he cooed.

"Agent Kruger- sorry, Cyanide," she said curtly, fighting to suppress the laughter at the ridiculousness of it all, "quit trying to wind me up and just answer the question."

The bearded man sighed, linking his fingers and then flexing them as one, cracking battle hardened knuckles and drawing Talar's attention to the metal grafts in his wrists, glinting in the light. He no longer needed to parry her, although she was certain he could and would if he felt like it – they both knew he had won this round. It was _her_ problem; the solution was either to stop rising to his provocations, or take a literal stand against them and bid him goodnight... both of which happened to be far easier said than done. Whereas fifteen minutes earlier he had played it safe, now he appeared to be back on course for testing and pushing her boundaries again, probing to just that iota short of cock-blocking himself. Or did he know – was he so blindly confident – that he could take any liberty he desired and she would still hop into bed with him?

Hard to tell. Regardless, attracted to him though she was, her self respect meant more. Were he indeed so narcissistic as to take her for a fool, for an easy lay who would endure anything just to receive his cock, then she would prove him wrong; even if it meant not sleeping with him in the near future, or ever. She was getting there with Botha; why did she need anyone else?

_Can't fault that logic. Except... HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST, JUST LOOK AT HIM IN THOSE SHORTS! You're telling me you'd pass up the chance to have sex with _that_?_

_You are not going to undo all my hard work. And yes, I _would_ forgo the chance. On principle._

_Oh really?_

_Yes, really._

_We'll see._

_Yes, we will._

She nearly laughed then, too – with its persistent back-chat, the demon now seemed to have added Kruger's character to its repertoire. Just what she needed right now.

"D'you want the vast over-simplification, or the more detailed explanation?" asked the wolfish man.

"I'll take somewhere in between, thanks."

He gave an amused snort. "OK then. First of all, I'm gonna fire three terms at you and see if you know what they mean."

"Fire away."

"PGS, ICBM, and space weapons."

"Nope to all three; unless the last one has anything to do with the Star Wars films."

"Not the films, which I'm thrilled you know of; but space weapons are part of what used to be called 'The Star Wars Program'. Anyway, PGS stands for Prompt Global Strike. ICBM is Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles. And, well, space weapons are pretty self explanatory."

"Sounds like hardcore stuff."

"Very. PGS essentially means blowing something up anywhere in the world, or space, within an hour, using ICBMs, space weapons, and anything else at my disposal. To over-simplify things, 'combat engineer' is a fancy term for having a license to blow shit up at short notice. Obviously there's a lot more to it than that, but first and foremost is the blowing shit up part. That's the most important part."

"Every man's boyhood dream."

"Fucking right it is."

"When you found out that was what you'd be doing, you must have done a double take. Like, "I'm being paid _this_ much to do _this_?!". Hooooooo yeah!"

"Yup." He flashed her a wicked grin. "Welcome to the good life, Mr. Kruger."

They shared a laugh, before she continued, "And another week later: back to your father."

"Indeed. Yeah, so... Alpha Coy got disbanded several years later and merged with Charlie Coy, but he always considered himself as a 32 Alpha; one of the original 32 Alphas. He told us that even when he was appointed RSM – Regimental Sergeant Major – which is no easy feat at that level, his proudest moments were with Alpha Coy, when he watched the unit grow and succeed, despite all the kak it had to contend with; and there was a _lot_ of kak, thanks to the brass back in Pretoria and their penchant for complicating all things bureaucratic and logistical... A lot of misinformation in the media, too, considering as this all happened during Apartheid, when mostly everyone outside of South Africa, and the black South Africans of the ANC party – African National Congress – they thought all white South Africans were racist scum, especially a group of white guys leading a unit of black guys, as 32 Bn was."

"So how was it really?"

"Apartheid happened, but in 32 it might as well not have. The Angolan troops didn't really know about it, and the South African officers and NCOs didn't care about it. Segregation there was limited simply to keeping the facilities and lodgings separate, which is standard military procedure anyway – groups were segregated according to rank, and the lower ranks were mostly all black. That wouldn't even qualify as circumstantial racism. During its formative years, 32 never officially existed, and it would have stayed that way if it hadn't been outed to the media by a few deserters, who fed the press lies about the black troops being enslaved and coerced into fighting, and generally looked down upon by the white leaders. That was complete bullshit, frankly. My dad never heard any white so much as utter one discriminatory word about the blacks, let alone do anything worse; in fact, there was a remarkable camaraderie between everyone, irrespective of creed, ethnicity, or status. You hear the term 'brothers in arms' and think it's all propaganda, but in fact it's very real. 32 succeeded, and accomplished more than any other unit in our history, per se, because of its unconventional relationship between the cultures and the social stratas. It all made for better cohesion on the battlefield."

"That's really heartening. And good business practice, too."

He chuckled. "They were the closest thing a unit got to a democracy. The thing about 32 was that, with the troops being Angolan and 32's enemy being Angolan and Namibian, they fostered a very healthy respect for their enemy, which spread throughout the entire unit. Those troops were smart, sharp, and they knew their opponent. Fortunately their superiors had the decency to pay attention to what they said; they let the troops train them as much as the other way round. One of the ways 32 got to be so formidable was by imitating the enemy – they took note of their enemy's tactics; studied them; employed them themselves against the enemy – which they couldn't have done if they didn't have such an unconventional relationship with their white leaders."

"So, when did your dad leave? I'm getting the impression he was with them a hell of a long time."

"He left in 1985. So, a decade in total, which was an exceptionally long time for someone in command. He was originally meant to leave after three years, but he insisted on staying. Three years turned to five, and five to ten. He chose to miss out on promotions because of 32; his heart was with that unit and he would have stayed with them until the end if he could. I think most officers would."

"And you say he was...errr...RSM, was it...when he left?"

"Regimental Sergeant Major, yes."

"Weren't you an RSM?"

He waved his hand. "I was Sergeant Major of the South African Army. RSM and SM are appointments, not ranks. My dad's rank, when he left, was WO1 – Warrant Officer Class One – which is the most senior appointment for an NCO in a unit, and not to be confused with-"

"Senior Chief Warrant Officer; as you were?"

"That's the one."

"And you became Senior Chief Warrant Officer at, what, age thirty...seven?"

"35."

"And that's the highest attainable rank for NCOs?"

"It is."

"Forgive me if I'm mistaken here, but isn't 35 about about 10 years too young to reach that rank?"

He smiled wryly. "Guess I slept with the right people."

She laughed. "In all seriousness, though, I mean- that's exceptionally young, right?"

"The Chief of the SANDF called it "prodigiously young"."

"No wonder you've got an ego."

"My ego's so big it's got an ego of its own and a condo on Elysium; so don't you fucking forget it, eh."

"But how did you manage to accomplish that in...err...17 years, was it?"

"18 years. In South Africa we could enlist from age 16, but I was 17."

"Right. So, then, how? I mean, we can joke about people sleeping their way to the top, and knowing the right people, but there comes a point, in most cases outside the entertainment industry-"

"-Hah."

"-where you've actually gotta be capable of doing the job you're being paid for, too."

"Ja, of course."

"And isn't there like a...a specific amount of time you have to spend at a certain rank before you're eligible for promotion? You can't just fast-track your way up the career ladder because you're capable of the job; you earn your points or your stripes or colors or whatever it's called by doing x amount of time in this activity, x amount of time in that, no?"

"In virtually every other case but mine, that's true."

"So how...?"

"It's just something I was born to do. Loved it from day one, put my every ounce of commitment and dedication to it, took risks others were too afraid to take, and it payed off. But I also had a talent for it; and, let's not lie, talent does play a large part. To excel at speed, you need something extra, and I was fortunate enough to have that. Two of my brothers also had it, to some degree; they also excelled in the military. There was a guy who joined at the same time as me, who rose through the ranks at a normal rate. Loved languages. At 17 he already spoke 7 different languages fluently. He asked me to teach him Chechen, and – I shit you not – the guy was 100% fluent within a year, pitch perfect accent and everything; and Chechen is fucking complicated to pronounce as well as understand, let me tell you. I kept in contact with him, and by the time of my dismissal he must have achieved fluency in about 15 languages. That was his talent. He could naturally do what mostly everyone else can't because his brain was just wired that way. My talent was the military."

"Still, it's impressive, so... Yeah. Another notch on your ego, if you want one."

He answered by way of a chuckle.


	17. BASSMEN - Sending Out an SOS(BassMenMix)

**AN**

\- Note: Addition to Chapter 5 author's note: 'Swanepoel' is pronounced 'Swa-neh-pool'; and 'Boer' rhymes with 'sure'.

\- Apologies for the delay, gals! My heartfelt thanks to those who have stuck with this story in spite of the blips.

* * *

**CHAPTER 17**

In response to Talar's confliction-filled email yesterday, Yasmin had precursed the blow with: "Bubba, what I'm going to say, I'm going to say because I'm your friend and I care about you." This was Yasmin's 'Diplomatic Friend' hat; one which, in only the most dire of fuck-ups, she placed neatly atop her head before whipping it off and proceeding to thwack you repeatedly in the face with it whilst yelling "get a grip, you crazy bitch!". 'Diplomatic' in the most ironic sense of the word, was Yasmin's hat. Still, it was this very no-nonsense battering ram approach that Talar admired so much in her friend. You knew where you were with Yasmin, both in criticism and compliment. She never minced her words or did things by halves.

Her friend had then continued: "You've got issues, girl. You are in the absolute eye of a megastorm of head fuckerage right now, and I want to help you out but I can't wrap my head around it. I mean sure, I could sit down and mull over it and try, try, to make sense of your attraction to the most rabid fucking guard dog we have, but that would just make my brain hurt too much. You're a nice girl, Tal. I know they say opposites attract, but Kruger? That's ridiculous. That guy takes horrible to a whole new level. He's depraved. You've seen his file.

"It took Andrew Chisholm forever to lose his mind, but you've gone batshit loony right off the bat. I bet it's the Earth water. You've been drinking the Earth water, haven't you, straight out the faucet like you do at home? I told you not to drink it, even if it's filtered.

"So what are we gonna do, Bubba? Well, I have a plan, and it involves a mid-week phonecall and a long chat. Get the vodka ready. And the ice packs for afterwards."

Save for "Yas, I love and hate you at the same time, you know," there had since been no Kruger-related communication between herself and her friend until the oryx-related text, which Talar had prefaced with a white lie instead of mentioning her attendance at Games Night. Yasmin hadn't questioned her over it, which, knowing Yasmin, meant she suspected nothing. Perhaps, Talar considered, her friend – who ranked highly enough to be in the know about exclusive company events – had forgotten when Games Night even took place. It wasn't her type of thing; business-wise Yasmin could schmooze with the best of them, but she only did so when absolutely necessary.

Talar knew she would be in for it when she told her friend the truth; although she might possibly be able to reclaim some points for not sleeping with the reviled mercenary; at least, for the time being. She wondered, also, whether she would have even gotten this far if she hadn't been alone down here.

"What did you mean when you said it was amusing that your dad was a Bat prior to joining 32?"

"Oh, that." he replied with a grin. "There was always a rivalry between the two units. Not entirely sure why. They were both Breytenbach's boys; and although they often had to work together, interpersonally they were on less than good terms."

"Maybe because they were both considered to be the toughest of the tough?"

"Maybe. My old man's comrades in the Bats were surprised that he got on so well there."

"What happened to 32 after your dad left?"

"They continued expanding and succeeding, until the end of the Bush Wars in 1989 when Namibia gained independence. Even after that, though, they were the go-to guys for the bulk of the action, really. They were used as a counter-insurgency force in South Africa. Then the Soviet Union broke up in 1991, and suddenly this enormous threat was gone. Problem was, the South African government was already bowing to the ANC, who were on the rise since Nelson Mandela got released from prison a year before-"

"I learned a little about him. Wasn't he supposed to be a good guy?"

"I'll get to that."

"OK."

"Mandela was elected president of the ANC shortly after his release from prison. Because he was an immensely popular guy, with him at the helm the National Party knew the ANC would win the next general election. They were terrified, because although Mandela advocated for peace, the majority of the ANC were generally inclined to violence, and Mandela often had to appease them or turn a blind eye for what he believed was the sake of the greater good. He was an astute politician; he understood the concept of collateral damage very well. He knew it was inevitable, so he didn't spend time trying to solve an unsolvable problem. And so, fearing another situation or twenty – because the black uprising was in full force at that time - and knowing they couldn't necessarily count on Mandela to keep the peace, the NP went all out trying to ingratiate themselves with the ANC.

"The National Party were all Afrikaners, but the ANC were Xhosa; and as the majority of 32 were black, the ANC regarded them as traitors to black African nationalism. They also regarded the unit as a potential threat against Xhosa dominance, and so, with the support of the National Party, they took steps to slowly and systematically undermine them. The Angolans got Saffa citizenship out of it, but at the cost of having to be demoralized. Official reports say otherwise; they say the unit had outlived its purpose and that there was simply nothing for it to do anymore, but that's only partially true. There is always something for a unit like that to do. Mostly they just didn't like a lot of power being in the hands of Angolans living on their turf.

"So, first they demoted them to doing township duty in the most fractious areas of the country, where ANC and IFP - Inkatha Freedom Party; the Zulus - clashes were highest, and peace keepers were known to get caught in the crossfire. When that didn't get enough of them killed, or involved in incidents against the local populace, so the unofficial story goes, the ANC stepped up their game and orchestrated an incident whereby they could frame the 32 guys for human rights violations, and get them disbanded. It's alleged, unofficially, they instigated a riot and got innocent black civilians in a squatter camp beaten, raped, shot, and a few killed, blaming it on 32."

Talar shook her head, appalled. "If that's true, then that's awful."

"Doubt we'll ever know what really happened, but I wouldn't have put it past the ANC to pull a stunt like that. The good guys they had, who actually supported 32 – Mandela wasn't the only one – just had to capitulate or face political and financial ruin, or death by necklacing."

"Necklacing?"

He gave a wistful but sardonic smile. "Quaint little practice the ANC's militant wing, _Umkhonto we Sizwe_, who Mandela founded, used against anyone they considered as traitors; although he wasn't the one responsible for starting it. Put a tire around someone's shoulders, douse them in gasoline, set them on fire and watch them burn to death. There was an alternate method where they made the victims drink the gasoline, then they'd force a flamethrower down their throats; but that wasn't as common."

"Lovely!"

"What's even lovelier is they decimated entire families via this method, one by one. Burning is the most painful way to go, by the way. They'd torture them first, though. The full service."

"And Mandela sanctioned what they were doing... or at least turned a blind eye?"

"Like I say, he had to. His wife, Winnie, was behind a lot of it. She'd been mistreated by the government, too, and this spurred her to become extremely militant during her husband's time in prison. What began as standing up for herself and her community turned into something sinister; the power of leadership went to her head and she became a tyrant who would do anything to advance her own power. She couldn't be trusted, even by those closest to her; anyone who dared disagree with her either got killed or disgraced. Mandela either had to let her emasculate him or face her turning on him and the rest of his family. He had his clan back in Mvezo, and also an ex-wife and children from that marriage, and he wanted to prevent any harm from coming to them. He did end up divorcing her, eventually, but not while 32 were still around.

"So, even with Mandela supporting 32, and the National Party pandering to Mandela, the rest of the ANC's power and threat was just too great to be ignored. The government decided to play it safe, and went along with the ANC's ruse."

A look of disgust crossed his face, almost to Talar's surprise. The man hadn't seemed the type to care profoundly about anything except himself, but here he was proving her wrong. Nevertheless, she wasn't naive or inebriated enough to be swayed by his sudden display of emotion; this lesser seen, humane side did nothing to change the rest of him.

"Fucking bastards stitched up 32 good and proper," he continued, with a mild shake of the head, staring into the middle distance. "Got them disbanded on a lie, and brought them into disrepute."

Talar sighed, lost for words. "I'm sorry to hear that. It's terrible. I can't even begin to imagine how it must have been for them."

Her companion turned his gaze back to her, his expression once again unreadable. "Yeah. It enraged a lot of people. Breytenback was incensed. It wasn't the end of the road for all the members, though. Some were reintegrated into the SADF; although that wasn't without its problems. For many of the others... well, an ex colleague of my dad's at the unit – Werner De Bruyn - saw an opportunity, and formed a private military company."

"Oryx?"

"The very one. So anyway, very long story short, De Bruyn had connections with one of the founders of Elysium, which is how he landed the gig supplying a faction of agents for the CCB."

"Wow."

"And I was his first official recruit in that capacity."

"Really?"

"Yep. Plucked from max-sec to go and work for him; a comrade of my own father and a guy I knew myself."

"You knew him?"

"It wasn't like he came round for afternoon tea or any of that kak; but yeah, I knew him. I worked with him in the SANDF. Oryx was probably the most secret of top secret organizations – they were, and still are, one of the PMCs who actually trained and supplied other PMCs – but they were entirely familiar to the higher ranking officials in the SANDF. We even worked in tandem with them at times. Like I say, every army without exception utilizes PMCs to some extent, and anyone who tries to argue differently is lying. But of course it had to be kept entirely hush hush to everyone outside of that specific situation; friends, family, even colleagues. If my dad ever knew about their existence, or me working with them, then he took that knowledge to his grave."

"You couldn't ever even hint to him?"

"By the time I worked with them – in the SANDF, that is - he had passed away."

"Oh.. I'm sorry."

"Nah, he had a good innings, as they say. Thoroughly enjoyed his life. Too bad he missed seeing me fuck with the Russians, though; he would've loved that, as 32 fought against them, too. 32 Bn were there to combat communism, essentially, and as Russia was part of that at the time, they were against the Russians and the Cubans."

"So you kind of continued your father's... quest... in that respect?"

"In what respect?"

"Your convictions against Russians. I told you, there are some very poorly kept secrets at the CCB."

He snorted. "It wasn't exactly a quest on his part. The SADF were against communism anyway; it wasn't a personal vendetta of his against the Russians. And my mother was a very forgiving person, completely live and let live. My maternal grandmother, less so. It was more her cause I wanted to champion, than my mother's."

Talar nodded. "What got you into the military, then?"

"S'in my blood. They say war is 80% politics, 20% fighting; it was never about the politics for me or any of my family line. My father, my uncles, my paternal grandfather and his brother, and my great grandfather; all spent their entire careers in the military, because they – we – were all _paraat_ soldiers. _Paraat_ means keen, eager. We were just patriotic South Africans who loved soldiering; it wasn't about backing any particular government regime or political ideology, as such. It wasn't easy for my father and uncles initially, being 'English', because since the start of Apartheid in 1948 the armed forces quickly became Afrikaner strongholds; whereas before they'd been equally mixed even though the British and the Boers – Afrikaners – mostly resented each other, due to the legacy of the Anglo-Boer war. Obviously there were exceptions, and not everyone wanted to outright kill each other, but they would certainly try to avoid working with one another wherever possible."

"The Anglo-Boer war... Was that the one in...err..." she halted, trying to think back to her inaugural conversation with Botha; but hampered by alcohol, the details failed to properly materialize, "the early to mid 1800's, when the English and the Afrikaners split, or something?"

"No; that was the Great Trek. Where d'you learn that?"

"Botha was giving me a quick run down of South African culture, and misleading surnames. I had a friend at school with an Afrikaner surname, but whose parents only spoke English. I mentioned this to him and he said the same was true of you, because of the Great Trek."

"He's right. The Anglo-Boer war was an extension of that."

"OK."

"It's a well known fact even amongst English South Africans that the British Empire, who won the war, committed some heinous, heinous atrocities against the Boers and the blacks. Many successive generations of Boers held onto that, and the English South Africans got pretty pissed off because the Boers wouldn't let bygones be bygones. Initially it was actually worse in the civilian population than in the military, but that all changed when the National Party – the government responsible for Apartheid – came to power. It wasn't as bad in my day; but my father and uncles had a lot to contend with, even though they all spoke fluent Afrikaans."

"And your grandfather and great uncle?"

"They joined the army 7 and 5 years before Apartheid began, when the military was more evenly structured between the Brits and the Boers. They weren't keen on working together, but they did, for the greater good. When Apartheid came in, the National Party made a point of systematically eradicating most of the British legacy in the army, switching the medium of instruction to Afrikaans and deliberately reviving old animosities."

"Wow. That's...childish. It wasn't as if the British were still persecuting the Boers, right?"

He nodded. "Most of the 'English' were as resentful of what Lord Kitchener's British army did to the Boers as the Boers themselves. Kitchener's guys gave English South Africans a bad name, and so lots of us were actively trying to make amends with the Boers to undermine that false reputation. But the National Party... those guys were extremely bitter. They would have made the English second class citizens if they could. They refused to let the past go. Because they couldn't kill the English or force them to leave, they persecuted them in other ways, of which the army was one. The air force and navy, less so, but they still favored Afrikaners."

"Was learning Afrikaans compulsory for English people?"

"During my grandfather and my dad's era, not necessarily. Depended where you were. The same was true of learning English for Afrikaners. During apartheid it was compulsory for Afrikaans to be taught in schools, but you weren't held back a grade if you flunked your exams in it; although you were at a disadvantage if you couldn't speak it. In the army and police force you had to learn it pretty fucking quickly, otherwise you wouldn't understand instructions. My grandfather, and my dad, my uncles, and me, we're all Jozi – Johannesburg – boys from the inner city, where it was ethnically mixed, so it helped to know Afrikaans."

"What do you mean by 'ethnically mixed'? Black, white, and colored?"

"There were certain English enclaves, and Afrikaner ones, all intersecting each other. In the English ones we had black maids. Even in the English ghettos we had black maids, and they'd often bring their children round, because they obviously couldn't afford childminders."

"Maids? Really?"

"Yep. Actual people, in those days." He flashed a wry smile, eliciting a chuckle from Talar. "They didn't live in; they had their own quarters in the house, where they ate and washed and went to the toilet, but outside of that the white kids would play with the black kids and think nothing of it. You also got quite a few Portuguese and Lebanese living in the English areas, too. We all mixed with Afrikaners; it wasn't that much of a big deal, even though the Afrikaners had a superiority complex and were very often racist towards the blacks."

"OK. So, how did you fare when you joined the army?"

"Traditionally, a lot of second or even third generation 'English' guys – the ones who had actually emigrated from England – had dual citizenships with the UK, which exempted them from conscription so long as they left the country. A lot of them did, and returned in the mid 90's when National Service became voluntary. So the 'English' guys who hadn't retained their English passports – or who, like me, came from a paternal line who were originally Afrikaners, generations and generations back – they didn't have dual citizenship, so they couldn't avoid it. Us English guys were vastly outnumbers by Boers. And especially with my surname being what it was – come on, you can hardly get more Boer than Kruger; the Anglo-Boer war was led by, you know, the famous Paul Kruger, for crying out loud - it was like a massive slap in the face to the Boer guys. But in turn they all worked hard and won the respect and acceptance of their comrades, and by the time my elder brother was drafted my family line had become well known as "die goeie rooinekke" - "the good English guys"."

"Does rooinekke mean rednecks, by any chance?"

"Ja, but not in the American use of the word. Depending on the context, it's a semi derogatory term for English speaking South Africans, regardless of social status or profession."

"I see."

"There are worse. At times, me and my brothers and the other English guys, we'd affectionately get called 'souties', which means 'salt dick'; as in, one foot in South Africa, the other in Britain, and your dick in the sea."

"Interesting."

"Yeah, we've got some amusing insults in South Africa. So, the Boers would call us 'souties', and we'd call them 'rockspiders', 'hairybacks', 'clutchplates', 'Dutchmen'-"

"Dutchmen? Isn't Afrikaans based on Dutch?"

"It is. 'Dutchman' is using their ancestry against them. It's basically saying that the guy hasn't evolved since his ancestors left the Netherlands. He's inbred. He's backward."

"OK."

"But in my day it was mostly light-hearted ribbing from the other troops; and the rank – the lieutenants, the corporals – it was their job to be consummate assholes to everyone below them, exploit any weakness in order to break them down so they could re-mold them in the army's image. Their directive was to make a man of you. In most cases there was no genuine contempt behind any of it, apart from the odd idiot who you'd find in any walk of life. My generation didn't have to go through what our elders did, when your fellow troops resented you, too. Afrikaans was still the language of instruction in most units when we got conscripted; some units had a 50/50 policy whereby they alternated Afrikaans and English for days or weeks at a time, but I didn't personally experience that. It depended on the unit.

"In the earlier years me and my fellow 'souties', hah... we did get stick for talking in English, to a lesser extent; but in my father's day English was considered by many as 'the language of the Antichrist', and you'd face severe penalties if you got caught speaking it. The SADF, as it was then known, was a brutal fucking environment at the best of times. It was designed to break you down and rebuild you as a proper, hardcore soldier. Capital H. Capital S. The rank came down on you hard enough when you complied; in the instance of any disobedience they were literally allowed to torture you, in those days. You'll always get a few real sadists; make them Lieuties – Lieutenants – or Corporals and guaranteed they'll use any excuse to abuse that power. Now, get an Afrikaner guy like that catching a soutie speaking the Devil's language and the poor soutie could be made to vomit and eat it, and then beaten half to death and denied sleep for a week. According to my dad, every unit seemed to have one or two rank like that."

"Charming."

* * *

**AN 2**

Wow, what a cliffie! Klaxons for sarcasm, eh. I wouldn't normally do this, but I've had to end this chapter abruptly due to getting extreme writer's block for how to actualize a proper ending to it. The scenario's all there, but putting it into words is proving very difficult at the moment. As it's been so long since my last update, and I promised to update before the end of the month, I've had to cut my losses and throw this out in its incomplete state lest I break my promise.


	18. YEP - ANOTHER UPDATE

Hey everyone,

Yet another unfortunate update. I was hoping there wouldn't be any more of these. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I am going to put_ Your Metal Spine_ on indefinite hiatus. I would dearly love to promise to continue with it in the forseeable future, but regrettably, I can't. If you want to remain following it, that would be fantastic; but if not, I understand, and in which case I thank you greatly for your support thus far.

Much love to all

LYSATD


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